


Kenny McCormick and the Chamber of Secrets

by TweekXCraig



Series: The Boy Who Lived [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, South Park
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canonical Child Abuse, Child Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Past Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2017-11-13
Packaged: 2018-09-06 13:06:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,493
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8752711
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TweekXCraig/pseuds/TweekXCraig
Summary: As Kenny McCormick eagerly awaits his second year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, it feels like everybody and their mothers is trying to stop him. Join Kenny and his friends on their journey through a school year that they'll never forget. 
*This is a work based off of J.K. Rowling's book Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, all rights belong to her and all characters belong to South Park!*





	1. The Worst Birthday Ever

Once again, an argument had broken out at breakfast in 28201 East Bonanza Street. Mr. Maxi Cartman had been woken early that morning by a loud, hooting noise from his nephew Kenny’s room.

“That is the third goddamned time this week!” he roared across the table at his nephew. “If you can’t control that fucking owl, I'm throwing it outside where it belongs!”

Kenny tried, yet again, to explain to them why she was hooting. “She’s _bored_!” he said. “She’s used to flying around outside all the time. If I was actually allowed to let her outside at night—“

 “Do I look stupid?” snarled Uncle Maxi, fried egg dangling from his lip. “I know what’s going to happen if that owl is allowed out.”

He exchanged a dark look with his wife, Lianne.

Kenny tried to plead his case again but his words were drowned by a long, loud burp from the Cartmans’ son, Eric.

“Mahm! I want more bacon!”

 “There’s more in the frying pan, poopskykins,” said Aunt Lianne, giving loving eyes to her obese son. “We have to feed you while we have the chance. . . . I don’t like the sound of that school food. . . .”

 “He's fine, Lianne, _I_ never went hungry when I was in school,” said Uncle Maxi heartily. “Eric eats enough, don’t you, son?”

Eric, who was so fat his ass hung over either side of the kitchen chair, grinned and turned to Kenny.

“Pass the frying pan, donkey balls.”

“You forgot the magic word,” said Kenny irritably.

The effect of this simple sentence was catastrophic: Eric screamed and fell off of his chair with a crash that shook the whole kitchen; Mrs. Cartman gave a small scream and clapped her hands over her mouth; Mr. Cartman jumped to his feet, veins throbbing in his temples.

“I just meant ‘please’!” said Kenny quickly. “I didn’t actually mean—“

“WHAT HAVE I TOLD YOU,” thundered his uncle, spraying spit onto Kenny's face, “ABOUT SAYING THE ‘M’ WORD IN OUR HOUSE?”

“I —”

“HOW DARE YOU THREATEN ERIC!” roared Uncle Maxi, pounding the table with his fist.

“I just —”

“I WARNED YOU! YOU WILL NOT TALK ABOUT YOUR FREAKY SHIT UNDER THIS ROOF!”    

Kenny stared from his purple-faced uncle to his pale aunt, who was trying to get Eric back on his feet.

“Sorry,” said Kenny, “I didn't mean it like _that_  . . .”

Uncle Maxi sat back down, breathing like a tired rhino and watching Kenny closely out of the corners of his small, angry eyes.

Since Kenny had come home for the summer break, Uncle Maxi had been treating him like a bomb that could go off at any moment, because Kenny McCormick _wasn’t_  normal. In fact, he was as abnormal as he could be.

Kenny McCormick was a wizard — a wizard right out of his first year at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. And if the Cartmans were unhappy for him to be back for the summer, it was nothing compared to how Kenny felt.

He missed Hogwarts so much it was like a constant ache in his chest. He missed the castle, with its secret hallways and ghosts, his classes (but not Garrison, the Potions teacher), the mail that arrived by owl, eating feasts in the Cafeteria, sleeping in his gigantic bed in the tower dorms, visiting the school's culinary master, Chef, in his cabin next to the Forbidden Forest, and, especially, Quidditch, the most popular sport in the wizarding world (six tall goals, four flying balls, and fourteen players on broomsticks).

All of Kenny’s spellbooks, his wand, his school robes, his cauldron, and his state-of-the-art Nimbus Two Thousand broomstick had been locked in a closet under the stairs by Uncle Maxi the second Kenny stepped through the door. The Cartmans did not care if Kenny lost his place on the Gryffindor Quidditch team because he hadn’t practiced all summer? They really didn't care either if Kenny went back to school with none of his homework done? The Cartmans were what wizards called Muggles (they didn't have a drop of magical blood in their veins), and as far as they were concerned, having a wizard in the family was the worst thing that had ever happened to them. Uncle Maxi had even locked Kenny’s owl, Lemmiwinks, inside her cage, to prevent Kenny from sending messages to anyone in the wizarding world.

Kenny looked nothing like the rest of his family. Uncle Maxi was fat, with black hair that faded to grey closer to his neck and glasses; Aunt Lianne was round-faced and always wore her brown hair in a bun at the back of her head; Eric was brunette, angry, and obese. Kenny was small and skinny, with bright blue eyes and golden-blonde hair that was always messy. Whenever he was home, he always wore an old orange parka that mostly covered his face with the exception of his eyes and his forehead were there was a thin, lightning-shaped scar.

It was this scar that made Kenny so abnormal, even for a wizard. This scar was the only hint of Kenny’s mysterious past, of the reason why he had been left on the Cartmans’ doorstep eleven years earlier.

When he was just one years old, Kenny had somehow survived an attack from the greatest Dark troll of all time, Dildo Schwaggins, whose name most witches and wizards still feared to speak. Kenny’s family had died in Dildo Schwaggins’ attack, but Kenny had escaped with his lightning scar, and — nobody understood why but— Dildo Schwaggins’ powers had been destroyed the instant he had failed to troll Kenny.

So Kenny that had left him with his dead mother’s sister and her husband. He had spent the past ten years with the Cartmans, never understanding why he kept making weird things happen without actually trying to do them, and wholly believing the Cartmans’ story that he had gotten his scar in the car accident that had killed his family.

And then, a year ago, Hogwarts had written to Kenny, and the truth had been revealed to him. Kenny left for wizard school afterwards, where he and his scar were famous . . . but now, the school year was over, and he was back with the Cartmans for the summer, being treated like a dog with a bad flea infestation.

The Cartmans hadn’t even remembered that today was Kenny’s twelfth birthday. Of course, his hopes hadn’t been high; they’d never given him a real present, much less a cake — but ignoring it completely was a new low . . .

At that moment, Uncle Maxi cleared his throat and said, “Now, as we all know, today is a very important day.”

Kenny looked up, not wanting to believe it.

“This is the day I make the biggest deal of my entire career,” said Uncle Maxi.

Kenny sadly looked back to his toast. _Of course_ , he thought bitterly, _Uncle Maxi was talking about his stupid dinner party_. He’d been talking about nothing else for the past two weeks. Some rich contractor and his wife were coming over for dinner and Uncle Maxi was hoping to get a huge deal going with him (Uncle Maxi’s company made drills).

“Let's run through the schedule one more time,” said Uncle Maxi. “We're all going to be in position at exactly eight o’clock tonight. Lianne, where will you be — ?”

“In the front hall,” said Aunt Lianne promptly, “waiting to welcome them into our home.”

“Good. Eric?” “

"I’ll be waiting by the door.” Eric put on a nasty, fake smile. “May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

“Oh, they’ll _love_ him!” cried Aunt Lianne.

“Good, Eric,” said Uncle Maxi. Then he turned to Kenny. “And what about  _you_?”

“I’ll be in my bedroom, making no noise and pretending I’m not here,” said Kenny tonelessly.

“Exactly,” said Uncle Maxi nastily. “I will take them into the living, properly introduce you, Lianne, and you will pour them drinks. At eight-fifteen —”

“I’ll say dinner is ready,” said Aunt Lianne.

“And, Eric —”

“I'll say, 'may I take you through to our dining room, Mrs. Mason?'” said Eric, offering his fat arm to an invisible woman.

“What a perfect little gentleman!” sniffed Aunt Lianne.

“And _you_?” said Uncle Maxi viciously to Kenny.

“I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” said Kenny dully.

“Okay. Now, we're all gonna get in a few compliments at dinner. Lianne?”

 “Maxi tells me you’re an  _amazing_  golfer, Mr. Mason. . . . Where did you buy your dress, Mrs. Mason, it's beautiful. . . .”

“Perfect . . . Eric?”

“Hows about — ‘We had to write an essay about our hero at school, Mr. Mason, and _I_ wrote about _you_.’ ”

This was too much for both Aunt Lianne and Kenny. Aunt Lianne burst into tears and hugged her son, while Kenny ducked under the table so they wouldn’t see him laughing.

“And you?” Kenny fought to keep his face straight as he sat up straight again. “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I’m not there,” he said.

“Where you should be,” said Uncle Maxi forcefully. “The Masons don’t know anything about you and it’s going to stay that way. When dinner’s over, you'll take Mrs. Mason back to the lounge for coffee, Lianne, and I’ll start talking about drills. After that, I’ll have the deal signed before the news is on at ten. And tomorrow, we’re going shopping for a vacation home.”

 Kenny didn't feel excited about this. The Cartmans didn't like him any better on vacation than they did here.

“Alright then — I’m off to pick up the suit jackets for Eric and I. And _you_ ,” he snarled at Kenny. “Stay out of your aunt’s way while she’s cleaning.”

Kenny went outside after breakfast, leaving through the kitchen's back door. It was a warm, sunny day. He walked across the backyard, sadly sat down on the bench near the fence, and sang under his breath:

“Happy birthday to me . . . happy birthday to me . . .”

He had gotten no cards, no presents, and he would be spending the rest of his birthday pretending not to exist. He stared miserably at the bushes. He had never felt so lonely in his entire life. More than anything else, even more than playing Quidditch, Kenny missed his best friends, Stan Marsh and Kyle Broflovski. They, however, didn’t seem to be missing him at all. Neither of them had written to him once all summer, even though Stan had said he was going to invite Kenny to come and stay at his house at some point during the break.

Plenty of times, Kenny had been on the verge of unlocking Lemmiwinks’ cage using magic and sending her to Stan and Kyle with a letter, but it wasn’t worth the risk. Underage wizards weren’t allowed to use magic outside of school. Kenny hadn’t told the Cartmans this yet; he knew it only was their fear that he might turn them all into piles of dog poop that stopped them from locking _him_ in the closet under the stairs with his wand and broomstick. For the first couple of weeks back, Kenny had enjoyed muttering jibberish words under his breath and watching Eric run out of the room as fast as his fat legs could carry him. But the long silence from Stan and Kyle had made Kenny feel so cut off from the magical world that even taunting Eric had lost its appeal — and now Stan and Kyle had forgotten his birthday.

What wouldn’t he give right now for a message from even Hogwarts? From any witch or wizard he had ever met? He’d almost be glad to see his archenemy, Craig Tucker, just so he could be sure it hadn’t all just been a dream. . . .

Not that his whole year at Hogwarts had been fun and games. At the end of last year, Kenny had come face-to-face with none other than Dildo Schwaggins himself. Dildo Schwaggins might be a ghost of his former self, but he was still terrifying, still deadly, and still determined to regain his lost powers. Kenny had slipped through Dildo Schwaggins’ grip for a second time, but it had been a narrow escape, and even now, weeks later, Kenny kept waking in the night, drenched in a cold sweat, wondering where Dildo Schwaggins was now, remembering his face, his wide, evil eyes —

Kenny suddenly jumped and sat up straight on the bench. He had been staring absent-mindedly into the bushes — _and they were staring back_. Two huge green eyes had appeared in the leaves.

Kenny jumped to his feet just as an evil voice came from behind him.

“I know what day it is,” sang Eric, waddling closer.

The huge eyes blinked and vanished.

“What?” said Kenny, not taking his eyes off the spot where they had been.

“I know what day it is,” Eric repeated, standing in front of him.

“Cool, fat ass,” said Kenny. “You finally learned the days of the week.”

“Today’s your _birthday_ ,” sneered Eric. “And it would appear that you haven’t gotten a single present or card this year. Don’t you have any friends at that hippie bullshit school? Or do they not like you because you’re a poor, ugly fuck?”

“I wouldn't let your mom hear you talking about my school,” said Kenny coolly.

Eric pulled up his pants, which were slipping down his fat ass.

“Why were you staring at the bushes like that, butthole?” he said suspiciously.

“I’m trying to decide what would be the best spell to set it on fire,” said Kenny.

Eric stumbled backwards, a look of panic on his fat face. “You c-can’t — Dad said you you’re not to do m-magic — he said he’ll throw your poor ass out of the house — and you don’t have anywhere else to go — you don’t even have any friends that you —”

“ _Jiggery pokery_!” said Kenny in a fierce voice. “ _Hocus pocus_ — _squiggly wiggly_ —”

 “MAAAAHMMM!” howled Eric, tripping over his feet as he ran back toward the house. “MAHHMM! He’s doing you know what!”

Kenny paid for his moment of fun. Even though, Eric and the bushes were perfectly fine, and Aunt Lianne knew that he hadn’t really done magic, he still had to duck as she aimed a heavy blow at his head with the soapy frying pan she was holding. Then she gave him work to do, with the promise that he wouldn’t eat again until he’d finished his chores.

While Eric sat around watching TV and eating ice cream, Kenny cleaned the windows, washed the car, mowed the lawn, trimmed the bushes, pruned and watered the roses, and repainted the backyard fence. The sun blazed overhead, burning the back of his neck after he’d finally conceded and taken off his signature parka. Kenny knew he shouldn’t have risen to Eric’s bait, but Eric had said what Kenny had been thinking himself . . . maybe he _didn’t_ have any friends at Hogwarts. . . .

_I wish everyone could see the famous Kenny McCormick now_ , he thought savagely as he spread manure on the flower beds, his back aching, sweat running down his face.

It was seven-thirty at night when at last, exhausted, he heard Aunt Lianne calling for him.

 “Get in here! And walk on the newspaper!”

Kenny headed gladly into the shade of the pristine kitchen. On top of the fridge stood tonight’s dessert: a huge mound of whipped cream and sugar flowers on top of an immaculate cake. A roast beef was sizzling in the oven.

“Eat quickly! The Masons will be here soon!” snapped Aunt Lianne, pointing to two slices of bread and a lump of cheese on the kitchen table. She was already wearing a salmon-pink cocktail dress.

Kenny washed his hands and wolfed down his meager dinner. The second he had finished, Aunt Lianne took away his plate. “Upstairs! Hurry!”

As he passed the door to the living room, Kenny caught a glimpse of Uncle Maxi and Eric in bow ties and suits. He had only just reached the upstairs landing when the doorbell rang and Uncle Maxi’s furious face appeared at the foot of the stairs.

“Remember— one sound —”

Kenny headed for his bedroom, tiptoeing, slipped quietly inside, closed the door, and then turned to collapse on his bed.

But he couldn't, because there was already someone sitting on it.


	2. Willzyx's Warning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone's wondering, the name Willzyx came from the South Park episode, Free Willzyx, and is pronounced Will-zee-ack.

Kenny didn’t scream, but he came pretty close to it. There was a little creature on his bed that had gigantic, bat-like ears and huge green eyes the size of tennis balls. Kenny realized that this was what had been watching him in the bushes earlier in the morning.

As they stared at each other, Kenny heard Eric’s voice from downstairs.

“May I take your coats, Mr. and Mrs. Mason?”

The creature jumped off of the bed and bowed so low that the end of its long, thin nose touched the carpet. Kenny noticed that it was wearing what looked like an old pillowcase, with rips for the arm- and leg-holes.

“Uhm— hi,” said Kenny nervously.

“Kenny McCormick!” said the creature in a high-pitched voice Kenny was terrified would be heard downstairs. “So long has Willzyx wanted to meet you, sir . . . Such an honor it is. . . .”

“Th-thanks, dude,” said Kenny, moving along the wall and sitting in his desk chair, next to Lemmiwinks, who was asleep in her cage. He wanted to ask, “What are you?” but thought it would be too rude, so instead he said, “Who are you?”

“Willzyx, sir. Just Willzyx. Willzyx the house-elf,” said the creature.

“Oh —” said Kenny. “Okay — well, I’m not trying to be rude here, dude, but — this isn’t exactly a good time for me to have a house-elf in my bedroom.”

Aunt Lianne’s eerie, fake laugh came from the living room. The elf hung his head sadly.

“I mean, it’s nice to meet you,” said Kenny quickly, “but, like, why are you here?”

“Oh, yes, sir,” said Willzyx earnestly. “Willzyx has come to tell you, sir . . . it is difficult, sir . . . Willzyx wonders where to begin. . . .”

“Do you wanna sit down?” asked Kenny politely, pointing at the bed.

To his horror, the elf burst into tears — screaming tears.

“ _S-sit down_!” he wailed. “ _Never . . . never ever . ._ .”

Kenny heard the voices downstairs stop.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, “I didn’t mean to offend you or anything —”

“Offend Willzyx!” choked the elf. “Willzyx has never been asked to sit down by a wizard — like an _equal_ —”

Kenny was trying to shut the elf up and be comforting at the same time, so he helped Willzyx back onto the bed where he sat hiccupping, looking like a big, ugly doll. Finally, he managed to control himself, and sat with his big eyes fixed on Kenny in adoration.

“You know some shitty wizards,” said Kenny, trying to cheer him up.

Willzyx shook his head. Then, without any further warning, he jumped up and started slamming his head heavily on the window, shouting, “ _Bad_ Willzyx! _Bad_ Willzyx!”

“Dude—stop! What the fuck are you doing?” Kenny hissed, standing up and pulling Willzyx back onto the bed — Lemmiwinks had woken up with a loud screech and was beating her wings angrily against the bars of her cage.

“Willzyx had to punish himself, sir,” said the elf, who had gone cross-eyed. “Willzyx almost spoke ill of his family, sir. . . .”

“Your family?”

“The wizard family Willzyx serves, sir. . . . Willzyx is a house-elf — bound to serve one house and one family forever. . . .”

“Do they even know you’re here?” asked Kenny curiously.

Willzyx shuddered.

“Oh, no, sir, no . . . Willzyx will have to punish himself most grievously for coming to see you, sir. Willzyx will have to shut his ears in the oven door for this. If they ever knew, sir —”

“Won’t they notice if you shut your ears in the oven?”

“Willzyx doubts it, sir. Willzyx is always having to punish himself for something, sir. They lets Willzyx get on with it, sir. Sometimes they reminds me to do extra punishments. . . .”

“Then why don’t you leave? Try and escape or something, dude.”

“A house-elf must be set free, sir. And the family will never set Willzyx free . . . Willzyx will serve the family until he dies, sir. . . .”

Kenny stared.

“And I thought I had it bad staying here for another four weeks,” he said. “This makes the Cartmans sound nice. Can anyone help you? Is there something I can do?”

Immediately, Kenny wished he had kept his mouth shut. Willzyx started wailing out of gratitude.

 “Please,” Kenny whispered frantically, “please be quiet. If the Cartmans hear anything, if they know you’re here —”

“Kenny McCormick asks if he can help Willzyx . . . Willzyx has heard of your greatness, sir, but of your goodness, Willzyx never knew. . . .”

Kenny, who was now blushing, said, “Whatever you’ve heard about my greatness is a load of bullshit. I’m not even in top of my class at Hogwarts; that’s Kyle, he —”

But he stopped talking quickly, because thinking about Kyle was painful.

“Kenny McCormick is humble and modest,” said Willzyx reverently, his orb-like eyes glowing. “Kenny McCormick speaks not of his triumph over He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named —”

“Dildo Schwaggins?” said Kenny.

Willzyx clapped his hands over his bat ears and moaned, “Ah, speak not the name, sir! Speak not the name!”

“Sorry,” said Kenny quickly. “I know a lot of people don’t like it. My friend Stan —”

He stopped talking again. Thinking about Stan was painful, too.

Willzyx leaned toward Kenny, his eyes wide.

“Willzyx heard tell,” he said hoarsely, “that Kenny McCormick met the Dark Lord for a second time, just weeks ago . . . that Kenny McCormick escaped yet again.”

Kenny nodded and Willzyx’s eyes shone with more tears.

“Ah, sir,” he gasped, dabbing his face with a corner of the disgusting pillowcase he was wearing. “Kenny McCormick is valiant and bold! He has braved so many dangers already! But Willzyx has come to protect Kenny McCormick, to warn him, even if he does have to shut his ears in the oven door later. . . . _Kenny McCormick must not go back to Hogwarts_.”

There was silence interrupted by the clinking of knives and forks from downstairs and the distant rumble of Uncle Maxi’s voice.

“W-what?” Kenny stammered. “Dude, I have to go back — school starts on September first. It’s literally all that’s keeping me going still. You don’t know what it’s like here. I don’t _belong_ here. I belong in your world — at Hogwarts.”

“No, no, no,” squeaked Willzyx, shaking his head so hard his ears flapped against his skull. “Kenny McCormick must stay where he is safe. He is too great, too good, to lose. If Kenny McCormick goes back to Hogwarts, he will be in mortal danger.”

“Why?” said Kenny in surprise.

“There is a plot, Kenny McCormick. A plot to make most terrible things happen at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry this year,” whispered Willzyx, trembling. “Willzyx has known it for months, sir. Kenny McCormick must not put himself in peril. He is too important, sir!”

“What?” said Kenny at once. “What’s going on?”

Willzyx made a choking noise and then banged his head frantically against the wall.

“Stop!” cried Kenny, grabbing the elf’s arm to stop him. “Fine, I get it; you can’t tell me. I understand. But why are you _warning_ me then?” A scary thought came to him. “Wait — this doesn’t have anything to do with Dil — sorry — with You-Know-Who, does it? Just shake or nod,” he added quickly as Willzyx’s head came worryingly close to the wall again.

Slowly, Willzyx shook his head.

 “Not — not _He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named_ , sir —”

But Willzyx’s eyes were wide and he looked like he was trying to give Kenny a hint. Kenny, however, was completely lost.

“Does he have a brother?”

Willzyx shook his head, his eyes wider.

“Well, dude, I can’t think of anyone else who could make bad things happen at Hogwarts,” said Kenny. “I mean, PC Principal’s there— you know who PC Principal is, right?”

Willzyx bowed his head.

“PC Principal is the greatest Principal Hogwarts has ever had. Willzyx knows it, sir. Willzyx has heard PC Principal’s powers rival those of He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named at the height of his strength. But, sir” — Willzyx’s voice dropped to an urgent whisper — “there are powers PC Principal doesn’t . . . powers no decent wizard . . .”

And before Kenny could stop him, Willzyx jumped off the bed, seized Kenny’s desk lamp, and started beating himself over the head with earsplitting yelps.

A sudden silence happened downstairs. Two seconds later Kenny, heart beating rapidly in his chest, heard Uncle Maxi stomping upstairs, saying, “Eric must have left his TV on again!”

“Get in the closet!” hissed Kenny, stuffing Willzyx in, shutting the door, and throwing himself onto the bed just as the door flung open.

“What — the — _fuck_ — are — you — doing?” said Uncle Maxi through gritted teeth, his face right in Kenny’s. “You ruined the punch line of my Japanese golfer joke. . . . Another sound and you’ll wish you would have never been born!”

He stomped out of the room again.

Shaking, Kenny let Willzyx out of the closet.

“Do you see how they treat me here?” he said. “Do you understand why I need to go back to Hogwarts? It is literally the only place I have — well, I _think_ I have friends.”

“Friends who don’t even _write_ to Kenny McCormick?” said Willzyx slyly.

“They’re — hey, wait,” said Kenny, frowning. “How do _you_ know my friends haven’t been writing to me?”

Willzyx shuffled his feet.

“Kenny McCormick mustn’t be angry with Willzyx. Willzyx did it for the best —”

“ _Have you been stealing my letters?_ ”

“Willzyx has them here, sir,” said the elf. Dancing out of Kenny’s reach, he pulled a thick wad of envelopes from the inside of the pillowcase he was wearing. Kenny could make out Kyle’s neat writing, Stan’s untidy scrawl, and even a scribble that looked as though it was from the Hogwarts Head Chef. Willzyx blinked anxiously up at Kenny.

“Kenny McCormick mustn’t be angry. . . . Willzyx hoped . . . if Kenny McCormick thought his friends had forgotten him . . . Kenny McCormick might not want to go back to school, sir. . . .”

Kenny wasn’t listening to him anymore. He grabbed at the letters, but Willzyx jumped out of reach again.

“Kenny McCormick will have them, sir, if he gives Willzyx his word that he will not return to Hogwarts. Ah, sir, this is a danger you must not face! Say you won’t go back, sir!”

“No,” said Kenny angrily. “Give me my letters!”

“Then Kenny McCormick leaves Willzyx no choice,” said the elf sadly. Before Kenny could move, Willzyx had darted out of the bedroom door and sprinted down the stairs.

Mouth dry, and stomach twisting, Kenny sprinted after him quietly as he could. He skipped the last six steps, landing catlike on the hall carpet, and looked around for Willzyx. From the dining room he heard Uncle Maxi saying, “. . . tell Lianne that funny story about those British plumbers, Mr. Mason. She’s been dying to hear . . .”

Kenny ran up the hallway into the kitchen and felt his stomach disappear. Aunt Lianne’s masterpiece, the mountain of whipped cream and sugar flowers, was floating up near the ceiling. On top of the cabinets in the corner crouched Willzyx.

“No,” croaked Kenny. “Please . . . they’ll kill me. . . .”

“Kenny McCormick must say he’s not going back to school —”

“Willzyx . . . please . . .”

“Say it, sir —”

 “I can’t —”

Willzyx gave him a sad look.

“Then Willzyx must do it, sir, for Kenny McCormick’s own good.”

The plate fell to the floor with a heart-stopping crash. Whipped cream sprayed the windows and walls as the dish shattered. With a crack like a whip, Willzyx vanished.

There were screams from the dining room and Uncle Maxi burst into the kitchen to find Kenny, standing covered from head to toe in Aunt Lianne’s cake.

At first, it looked as though Uncle Maxi could manage to gloss the whole thing over. (“Just our nephew — he’s mentally ill — meeting strangers upsets him, so we let him stay upstairs. . . .”) He moved the confused Masons back into the dining room, promised Kenny he would beat him within an inch of his life when the Masons left, and handed him a mop. Aunt Lianne found some ice cream in the freezer and Kenny, still shaking, started cleaning the kitchen.

Uncle Maxi still might have managed to seal the deal — if it hadn’t been for the owl.

Aunt Lianne was just passing around a box of after-dinner mints when a huge barn owl swooped through the dining room window, dropped a letter on top of Mrs. Mason’s head, and swooped out again. Mrs. Mason screamed like a banshee and ran from the house shouting about psychopaths. Mr. Mason stayed just long enough to tell the Cartmans that his wife was terrified of birds of all shapes and sizes, and to ask whether this was their idea of a sick joke.

Kenny stood in the kitchen, hanging on to the mop for support, as Uncle Maxi came over to him, a demonic glint in his evil eyes.

“Read it!” he hissed, throwing the letter the owl had delivered at him. “Go on — read it!”

Kenny took it. It was not a birthday card.

 

Dear Mr. McCormick,

We have received intelligence that a Hover Charm was used at your place of residence this evening at twelve minutes past nine.

As you know, underage wizards are not permitted to perform spells outside school, and further spellwork on your part may lead to expulsion from said school (Decree for the Reasonable Restriction of Underage Sorcery, 1875, Paragraph C).

We would also ask you to remember that any magical activity that risks notice by members of the non-magical community (Muggles) is a serious offense under section 13 of the International Confederation of Warlocks’ Statute of Secrecy.

Enjoy your holidays!

Yours sincerely,

Mafalda Hopkirk

improper use of magic office

Ministry of Magic

 

Kenny looked up from the letter feeling like he had just been thrown into an ice bath.

“You didn’t tell us you weren’t allowed to use magic outside school,” said Uncle Maxi, an evil gleam dancing in his eyes. “You forgot to mention it. . . . It must have slipped your mind. . . .”

He was coming towards Kenny like an angry bulldog, all his teeth bared. “Well, I’ve got news for you. . . . I am locking you up. . . . And you are never going back to that school . . . ever again . . . and if you try and use magic to get yourself out — they’ll expel you!”

And laughing like a maniac, he dragged Kenny back upstairs.

Uncle Maxi kept his word. The next morning, there was a man outside attaching bars to Kenny’s window. He himself put the cat-flap in the bedroom door, so that small amounts of food could be pushed inside of twice a day. They let Kenny out to use the bathroom once in the morning and once in evening with a bucket that he himself had to clean for all other times throughout the day. And then, he was locked in his room.

 

Two weeks later, the Cartmans were showing no sign of relenting, and Kenny couldn’t see any way out of his situation. He laid on his bed watching the sun sinking behind the bars on the window and wondered miserably what was going to happen to him.

What good was it using magic to get himself out of his room if Hogwarts would expel him for doing it? His life had reached an all-time low. Now that the Cartmans knew they weren’t going to wake up turned into sewer rats, he had lost his only weapon. Willzyx might have saved Kenny from horrible happenings at Hogwarts, but the way things his life was going now, he was going to starve to death before the school year started anyways.

The cat-flap rattled and Aunt Lianne’s hand appeared, pushing a bowl of canned soup into the room. Kenny, whose ribs were starting to jut out with starvation, jumped off his bed and carefully grabbed it. The soup was cold, but he drank it all in one gulp. He went to Lemmiwinks’ cage and tipped the soggy vegetables at the bottom of the bowl into her empty food bowl. She ruffled her feathers and gave him a look of deep disgust.

“I know it’s shit, dude — but it’s all I have,” said Kenny grimly.

He put the empty bowl back on the floor next to the cat-flap and laid back down on the bed, even hungrier than he had been before the soup.

Assuming he was still alive in the next two weeks, what would happen if he didn’t show up at Hogwarts? Would they send someone to see why he was missing? Would they be able to free him from the Cartman’s prison?

The room was growing dark. Exhausted, stomach rumbling, and mind running over the same questions, Kenny drifted into an uneasy sleep.

He dreamed that he was in a zoo, and there was a plaque that said _underage wizard_ attached to his cage. People stared at him through the bars while he laid starving and half-dead on a pile of straw. He saw Willzyx’s face in the crowd and begged it for help, but Willzyx called, “Kenny McCormick is safe there, sir!” and vanished. Then the Cartmans came up and Eric rattled the bars of the cage, laughing at him.

“Stop,” Kenny muttered as the rattling pounded in his throbbing head. “Please, just leave me alone . . . stop . . . I just need to sleep. . . .”

He opened his eyes. Moonlight was shining through the bars on the window. And someone _was_ staring at him through the bars: a round-faced, black-haired, blue-eyed someone.

Stan Marsh.


	3. South Park

“ _Stan_!” breathed Kenny, creeping to the window and pushing it up so they could talk through the bars. “Stan, how did you — What the — ?”

Kenny’s mouth fell open as the full impact of what he was seeing hit him. Stan was leaning out of the back window of an old turquoise car, which was parked _in midair_. Grinning at Kenny from the front seat was Shelly, Stan’s older sister.

“Hey, turd!” said Shelly.

“What happened, dude?” said Stan. “Why haven’t you answered any of my letters? I asked you to come stay with me like twelve times, and then my Dad came home yesterday and said you got an official warning for using magic in front of Muggles —”

“It wasn’t me — and how did he know?”

“He works for the government,” said Stan. “But, dude, you _know_ it's illegal to do magic outside of school —”

“Dude, like you can talk,” said Kenny, staring at the floating car.

“This doesn’t count!” said Stan. “And we’re only borrowing this. It’s my Dad’s, plus  _we_ didn’t enchant it. But doing magic in front of those Muggles you live with —”

“I told you it wasn’t me r-tard, I didn’t — whatever, dude, it’s gonna take too long to explain now — look, can you tell Hogwarts that the Cartmans have me locked up and aren’t gonna let me go back, and obviously I can’t do any fucking magic to get myself out, because the government's gonna think that’s the second spell I’ve done in three days, so —”

“Okay, dude, chill,” said Stan. “And don't worry about any of that; we’re gonna take you home with us.”

“But you can’t do any magic to get me out either —”

“I don’t need to,” said Stan, jerking his head toward the front seat and grinning. “You forget who I have with me.”

“Tie that around the bars,” said Shelly, throwing the end of a rope to Kenny.

“If the Cartmans wake up, I’m dead,” said Kenny as he tied the rope tightly around a bar and Shelly revved up the car. “Don’t worry, turd,” said Shelly, “ and stand back.”

Kenny moved back into the shadows next to Lemmiwinks, who seemed to have realized how important this was and kept still and silent. The car revved louder and louder and suddenly, with a crunching noise, the bars were pulled clean out of the window as Shelly drove straight up into the air. Kenny ran back to the window to see the bars dangling a few feet above the ground. Panting, Stan hoisted them up into the car. Kenny listened anxiously, but there was no sound from the Cartmans’ bedroom. When the bars were safely in the back seat with Stan, Shelly reversed as close as possible to Kenny’s window.

“Get in,” Stan said.

“But all my school stuff — my wand — my broomstick —”

“Where is it?”

“It's locked in the closet under the stairs, and I can’t get out of my room —”

“No problem,” said Shelly from the front passenger seat. “Move, turd.”

Shelly climbed catlike through the window into Kenny’s room. You had to hand it to her, thought Kenny, as Shelly took an ordinary hairpin from her ponytail and started to pick the lock.

“A lot of wizards think it’s a waste of time, knowing this Muggle trick,” said Shelly, “but I feel like they’re skills worth learning, even if they are slower than Stan.”

There was a small click and the door swung open.

“So — I’ll get your stuff — you grab anything you need from your room and hand it to Stan,” whispered Shelly.

“Watch out for the bottom stair — it creaks,” Kenny whispered back as Shelly disappeared onto the dark landing.

Kenny ran around his room, grabbing his things and passing them out of the window to Stan. Then he went to help Shelly heave his trunk up the stairs. Kenny heard Uncle Maxi cough.

At last, panting, they reached the landing, then carried the heavy suitcase through Kenny’s room to the open window. Shelly climbed back into the car to pull with Stan, and Kenny pushed from the bedroom side. Inch by inch, the suitcase slid through the window.

Uncle Maxi coughed again.

“A little bit more,” panted Shelly, who was pulling from inside the car. “One good push —”

 Kenny threw his shoulder against the trunk and it slid out of the window and into the back seat of the car.

“Okay, let’s go,” Shelly whispered.

But as Kenny climbed onto the windowsill there came a sudden loud screech from behind him, followed immediately by the thunder of Uncle Maxi’s voice.

“THAT FUCKING OWL!”

“Shit! I forgot Lemmiwinks!”

Kenny ran back across the room as the landing light clicked on — he grabbed Lemmiwinks’ cage, sprinted back to the window, and passed it out to Stan. He was scrambling back onto the dresser when Uncle Maxi hammered on the unlocked door — and it crashed open.

For a split second, Uncle Maxi stood framed in the doorway; then he let out a bellow like an angry bull and dove at Kenny, grabbing him by the ankles.

Stan and Shelly seized Kenny’s arms and pulled as hard as they could.

“Lianne!” roared Uncle Maxi. “He’s getting away! HE’S GETTING AWAY!”

But the Marshs gave a gigantic tug and Kenny’s legs slid out of Uncle Maxi’s grasp — Kenny was in the car — he slammed the door shut —

“Step on it, Shelly!” yelled Stan, and the car shot suddenly towards the moon.

Kenny couldn’t believe it — he was free. He rolled down the window, the night air whipping through his hair, and looked back at the shrinking rooftops. Uncle Maxi, Aunt Lianne, and Eric were all standing, dumbstruck, near Kenny’s window.

“See you next summer!” Kenny yelled. The Marshs roared with laughter and Kenny settled back in his seat, smiling from ear to ear.

“Let Lemmiwinks out,” he told Stan. “So she can fly behind us. She hasn’t been out of her cage all summer.”

Shelly handed the bobby pin to Stan and, a minute later, Lemmiwinks soared joyfully out of the window to glide alongside them like a ghost.

“So — what happened, dude?” said Stan impatiently. “Why did they lock you up like that?”

Kenny told them all about Dobby, the warning he’d given Kenny and the cake incident. There was a long, shocked silence when he had finished.

“That’s fucked up,” said Shelly finally.

“Yeah, dude,” agreed Stan. “So he wouldn’t even tell you who’s plotting all this stuff?”

“I don’t think he could,” said Kenny. “Every time he got close to letting something slip, he started banging his head against the wall.”

He saw Stan and Shelly look at each other.

“What, you think he was lying?” said Kenny.

“Well,” said Shelly, “How do I put it— house-elves have powerful magic, but they usually can’t use it without their master’s permission. I’m gonna guess that Dobby was sent to stop you from going back to Hogwarts. Like, it was someone’s idea of a sick joke. Is there anyone at school that hates you?”

“Yes,” said Kenny and Stan together, instantly.

“Craig Tucker,” Kenny explained. “That dick hates me.”

“Craig Tucker?” said Shelly, turning around. “Thomas Tucker’s son?”

“I guess so,” said Kenny. “Why?”

“I’ve heard our Dad talk about that asshat before,” said Shelly. “He was a big supporter of You-Know-Who. And when You-Know-Who disappeared,” said Shelly, craning around to look at Kenny, “Thomas Tucker came back saying it was all just for the ‘lulz’. That’s a load of shit though — our Dad said he was in You-Know-Who’s inner circle.”

Kenny had heard these rumors about Craig’s family before, and they didn’t surprise him at all. Craig made Eric Cartman look like a kind, thoughtful, and sensitive boy.

“I don’t know if the Tuckers own a house-elf, though. . . .” said Kenny.

“Well, whoever owns him is an old wizarding family, and they’ll be probably rich,” said Shelly. “Our Mom always said she wished we had a house-elf to do the laundry, but all we’ve got is a stupid old ghoul in the attic and fucking underpants gnomes all over the garden. House-elves come with big old mansions and castles and places like that; you wouldn’t catch one in our shitty house. . . .”

Kenny was silent. Judging by the fact that Craig Tucker usually had the best of everything, his family was rolling in wizard gold; he could just see Craig skipping around a large mansion. Sending the family servant to stop Kenny from going back to Hogwarts also sounded exactly like the sort of thing Craig would do in his free time. Had Kenny been stupid to take Dobby seriously?

“Well, I’m glad we came to get you, dude,” said Stan. “I was really worried when you didn’t answer any of my letters. I thought it was Sparky’s fault at first —”

“Who’s Sparky?”

“Our owl. He’s old as hell. It wouldn’t be the first time he almost died during a delivery. So then I tried to borrow Mormon —”

“Who?”

“The owl our neighbors bought their kid when he was elected Class President,” said Shelly from the front.

“But that cocksucker wouldn’t lend him to me,” said Stan. “He said he needed him for something important.”

“He’s been acting weird as shit this summer,” said Shelly, frowning. “And he _has_ been sending a lot of letters and spending a ton of time in house. . . . I mean, there’s only so many times you can polish a Class President badge. . . .”

 “You’re driving too far west, Shelly,” Stan added, pointing at a compass on the dashboard. Shelly twiddled the steering wheel.

“Thanks, turd,” she grumbled.

“So, does your dad know you have his car?” said Kenny, guessing the answer.

“Uhm, no,” said Stan, “he had to work tonight. Hopefully, we’ll be able to get it back in the garage without our Mom noticing we took it.”

“What does your dad do for the government?”

“He works in the most boring department ever,” said Stan. “The Misuse of Muggle Objects Office.”

“The what?”

“It’s like when people bewitch things that are Muggle-made and then they end up back in a Muggle store or house. Like, last year, some old witch died and her tea set was sold to an antiques shop. This Muggle woman bought it, took it home, and tried to serve tea in it. It was a goddamn nightmare — my Dad was working overtime for weeks.”

“What happened?”

“The teapot went crazy and squirted boiling tea all over the place and one man ended up in the hospital with the sugar tongs clamped to his nose. My dad was going crazy — it’s only him and this super old warlock we call Grandpa in the office — and they had to do Memory Charms and shit to cover it up —”

“But your dad — this car —”

Shelly laughed.

“Yeah, my dad’s crazy about anything to do with Muggles; our shed’s full of Muggle shit. He takes it apart, puts spells on it, and tries to it back together again. If he raided our house he’d have to put himself under arrest. It drives our mom fucking nuts.”

“That’s the main road,” said Stan, peering down through the windshield. “We’ll be there in ten minutes. . . . thank God, it’s getting light. . . .”

A faint pinkish glow was visible along the horizon to the east. Shelly drove the car lower, and Kenny saw a dark patchwork of fields and clumps of trees.

“We’re right outside of town,” said Stan. “Welcome to South Park.”

Lower and lower went the flying car. The edge of a bright red sun was now shining through the trees.  

“Touchdown!” said Shelly as, with a slight bump, they hit the road. They had landed in front of a fairly average house that looked almost identical to the rest of them on the street in this tiny little mountain town.

 “It’s not that great,” said Stan.

“It’s _awesome_ dude,” said Kenny happily, thinking of Bonanza Street.

They got out of the car.

“Now, we’re all gonna go upstairs really quietly,” said Shelly, “and wait for Mom to call us down for breakfast. Then, turds, you two will come downstairs going, ‘Oh my god, Mom, look who came over last night!’ and she’ll be super stoked to see Kenny and no one will ever know we took the car.”

“Sweet,” said Stan. “Come on, Kenny, let’s get some — sleep —”

Stan had gone a pale greenish color, his eyes locked on the house. The other two wheeled around.

Mrs. Marsh was marching across the yard, and for a short, thin, kind-faced woman, it was remarkable how much she looked like a saber-toothed tiger.

“Shit,” said Shelly.

“Oh, fuck, dude,” said Stan.

Mrs. Marsh came to a halt in front of them, her hands on her hips, staring from one guilty face to the next. She was wearing a brown sweater and blue jeans with a wand sticking out of the front pocket.

“Well,” she said.

“Good Morning, Mom,” said Shelly, in what she clearly thought was a sweet, happy voice.

“Do you kids have you any idea how worried I’ve been?” said Mrs. Marsh in a deadly whisper.

“We’re sorry, Mom, but we had to —”

Both of Mrs. Marsh’s kids were almost as tall as she was, but they cowered as her rage broke over them.

“Your beds were empty! You didn’t leave a note! The flying car was gone — you could have died — I was going out of my mind worrying —and did you two even care? — I have never, as long as I have lived — just you wait until your father gets home, I swear to God, the Harrisons never have trouble like this from their children —”

“Fucking suck ups,” muttered Shelly.

“YOU COULD TAKE A LEAF OUT OF THE HARRISON’S BOOK!” yelled Mrs. Marsh, prodding a finger in Shelly’s chest. “You could have died, you could have been seen, you father could have lost his job —”

It seemed to go on for hours. Mrs. Marsh had shouted herself hoarse before she turned on Kenny, who backed away.

“It’s very nice to see you, Kenny, dear,” she said. “Come inside and have some breakfast.”

She turned and walked back into the house and Kenny, after a nervous glance at Stan, who nodded encouragingly, followed her. The kitchen was small but rather homey. There was a wooden table and chairs in the middle, and Kenny sat down on the edge of his seat, looking around. He had never been in a wizard house before.

The clock on the wall opposite him had only one hand and no numbers at all. Written around the edge were things like _Time to make coffee, Time to do the dishes,_ and _You’re late_. Books were stuffed tightly into a book shelf, books with titles _like Charm Your Own Cheese, Enchantment in Baking,_ and _One Minute Feasts — It’s Magic!_ And unless Kenny’s ears were deceiving him, the old radio next to the sink had just announced that coming up was “Witching Hour, with the popular singing sorceress, Barbara Streisand.”

Mrs. Marsh was moving around, cooking breakfast a little quickly, throwing dirty looks at her children as she threw sausages into the frying pan. Every now and then she muttered things like “don’t know _what_ you were thinking of,” and “ _never_ would have believed it.”

“I don’t blame you, dear,” she assured Kenny, tipping eight or nine sausages onto his plate. “Randy and I have been worried about you, too. Last night we were saying we were gonna go and get you ourselves if you hadn’t responded to Stan by Friday. But really, I don't know where my children get these idea,” (she was now adding three fried eggs to his plate), “who would ever even think that flying an illegal car halfway across the state — when anyone could have seen you —oh, I know, that’s something my husband would have done! That’s where their brains come from!”

She flicked her wand casually at the dishes in the sink, which began to clean themselves, clinking gently in the background.

“Jesus Christ, calm down already; it was cloudy, Mom!” said Shelly.

“Shut your mouth while you’re eating!” Mrs. Marsh snapped.

“They were starving him, Mom! He was being held prisoner!” said Stan.

“And you!” said Mrs. Marsh, but it was with a slightly softened expression that she started grabbed a piece of toast and buttering it for him.

“Well, I’m fucking exhausted,” yawned Shelly, setting down her knife and fork at last. “I’m gonna go to bed and —”

“Not so fast, young lady,” snapped Mrs. Marsh. “It’s not my fault you’ve been up all night. You’re going to de-gnome the garden for me; they’re getting completely out of hand again, they stole all of my panties the other night —”

“Jesus, mom —”

“And you,” she said, glaring at Stan.

“You can go up to bed, dear,” she added to Kenny. “You didn’t ask them to fly that fucking car —”

But Kenny, who felt wide awake, said quickly, “I’ll help Stan. I’ve never seen an underpants gnome —”

“That’s very sweet of you, dear, but it’s not very interesting,” said Mrs. Marsh. “Now, let’s see what Yates’ has to say about gnomes —”

And she pulled a heavy book from the stack on the mantelpiece.

Shelly groaned. “Jesus, mom, we know how to de-gnome a garden —”

Kenny looked at the cover of Mrs. Marsh’s book. Written across it in fancy gold letters were the words _Harrison Yates’ Guide to Household Pests_. There was a big photograph on the front of a very good-looking wizard with wavy red hair, a neatly trimmed goatee, and bright blue eyes.

As always in the wizarding world, the photograph was moving; the wizard, who Kenny supposed was Harrison Yates, kept winking cheekily up at them all. Mrs. Marsh beamed down at him.

“Oh, he's so smart,” she said. “And he sure does know his household pests, it’s such a good book. . . .”

“Mom wants to suck his chode,” said Shelly, in a very audible whisper.

“Be quiet, Shelly,” said Mrs. Marsh, her cheeks rather pink. “All right, if you think you know better than Yates, you can go do it, and if there is a single gnome in that garden when I come out to inspect it, you’re gonna regret it.”

Yawning and grumbling, the Marshs slouched outside with Kenny behind them. The back yard was large, and in Kenny’s eyes, exactly what a yard should be. The Cartmans wouldn’t have liked it — there were plenty of weeds, and the grass needed cutting — and there were gnarled trees all around the fence, and plants Kenny had never seen spilling from every flower bed.

“Muggles have gnomes, too, you know,” Kenny told Stan as they crossed the lawn.

“Yeah, I’ve seen them,” said Stan, bent double with his head in a peony bush, “they look like fat little Santa Clauses with fishing rods. . . .”

There was a violent scuffling noise, the peony bush shuddered, and Stan straightened up. “This is a gnome,” he said grimly.

“Hey, fuck off buddy! I’ll fucking kill you, you little shit!” squealed the gnome.

It was certainly nothing like Santa Claus. It was small and had a long red beard, with a large, pointed hat on it’s head and was holding a thong Kenny assumed belonged to Mrs. Marsh. Stan held it at arm’s length as it kicked out at him with its angry little feet; he grasped it around the ankles and turned it upside down, pinching it’s nose until it was forced to drop the underwear and pull Stan’s fingers away.

 “This is what you have to do,” he said. He raised the gnome above his head (“I swear to God, I’ll slit your throat if I ever see you again!”) and started to swing it in circles like a lasso.

Seeing the shocked look on Kenny’s face, Stan added, “It doesn’t hurt them — it just makes them really dizzy so they can’t find their way back to the gnomeholes.”

He let go of the gnome’s ankles: It flew twenty feet into the air and landed with a thud in a yard a few houses over and immediately heard a dog start barking.

“That was shit, turd,” said Shelly. “I bet you I can get mine to the Harrison’s backyard.”

Kenny learned quickly not to feel too sorry for the gnomes. He decided just to drop the first one he caught over the fence, but the gnome, sensing weakness, sank its razor-sharp teeth into Kenny’s finger and he had a hard job shaking it off — until — “Wow, Kenny — that must’ve been like fifty feet, dude. . . . .”

The air was soon thick with flying gnomes.

“These things are stupid as shit,” said Shelly, seizing five or six gnomes at once. “The second they know the de-gnoming’s going on their dumb asses all come rushing up to look. I mean, at this point, you think they would have learned to just to stay in their stupid little holes with their goddamned underpants, but no.”

 Soon, the crowd of gnomes in the field started walking away in a straggling line, their little shoulders hunched.

“They’ll be back,” said Stan as they watched the gnomes disappear into some bushes on the a few houses away. “They love it here. . . . my Dad’s way too soft with them; he thinks they’re funny. . . .”

Just then, the front door slammed.

“He’s back!” said Shelly. “Dad’s home!”

They hurried through the yard and back into the house. Mr. Marsh was slumped in a kitchen chair with his pants off and his eyes closed. He was a thick man, with a bushy mustache, that was black as his children’s hair. He was wearing a blue button up shirt, which was sweaty looking and stained.

“What a night,” he mumbled, groping for the open beer bottle on the table as they all sat down around him. “Nine raids. Nine! And Peter Nelson tried to put a hex on me when I had my back turned. . . .”

Mr. Marsh took a long gulp of beer and sighed.

“Find anything cool, Dad?” said Shelly eagerly.

“All I got were a few shrinking door keys and a biting coffee pot,” yawned Mr. Marsh. “There was some pretty cool stuff that wasn’t my department, though. Marvin was taken away for questioning about some weird ferrets, but that’s the Committee of Experimental Charms, thank Jesus. . . .”

“Why would anyone make door keys shrink?” said Stan.

“Just stupid Muggle-baiting,” sighed Mr. Marsh. “You sell a Muggle a key that keeps shrinking  so they can never find it when they need it. . . . Of course, it’s hard to convict a wizard of that because a Muggle isn't going to say that their key keeps shrinking — they’ll think they just keep losing it. Stupid Muggles, they’ll do anything to ignore magic, even if it’s staring them right in the face. . . . But the things wizards have enchanted, you wouldn’t believe —”

“LIKE CARS, RANDY?” Mrs. Marsh had appeared, holding a spatula like a sword.

Mr. Marsh’s eyes jerked open. He stared guiltily at his wife.

“C-cars, Sharon?”

“Yes, Randy, cars,” said Mrs. Marsh, her eyes flashing. “Imagine a wizard buying a rusty old car and telling his wife that all he wanted to do with it was take it apart to see how it worked, while really he was enchanting it to make it fly.”

Mr. Marsh blinked.

“Well, dear, I think you’ll find that he would be within the law to do that, even if — uh — he maybe should have, um, told his wife the truth. . . . There’s a loophole in the law. . . . As long as he wasn’t _intending_ to fly the car, the fact that the car _could_ fly wouldn’t —”

“Randy Marsh, you made sure there was a loophole when you wrote that goddamned law!” shouted Mrs. Marsh. “Just so you could keep fucking around with all that Muggle shit in your shed! And for your information, Kenny arrived this morning in the car you weren’t intending to fly!”

“Kenny?” said Mr. Marsh blankly. “Kenny who?”

He looked around, saw Kenny, and jumped.

“Oh my God, it’s Kenny McCormick! Oh my goodness, I am so startled right now! It’s so good to meet you! Stan’s told us so much about —”

“ _Your children flew that car to Kenny’s house and back last night_!” shouted Mrs. Marsh. “What do you have to say to them?”

“Really?” said Mr. Marsh eagerly. “How’d it drive? I — I mean,” he faltered as sparks flew from Mrs. Marsh’s eyes, “that — that was very bad kids — that was not what it was meant for. . . .”

“C’mon, dude, forget them,” Stan muttered to Kenny as Mrs. Marsh's face turned purple with anger. “I’ll show you my room.”

They slipped out of the kitchen and into the living room to head up staircase, which put them in the upstairs hallways of the house. Right next to the top of the stairs, a door stood ajar with a sign on it saying _Stanley’s room_. Kenny stepped in and blinked. It was like walking into an icy furnace: Nearly everything in Stan’s room seemed to be a violent shade of orange striped with blue: the bedspread, the walls, even the ceiling. Then Kenny realized that Stan had covered nearly every inch of the wallpaper with posters of the same seven witches and wizards, all wearing bright orange and dark blue robes, carrying broomsticks, and waving energetically.

“Your Quidditch team?” said Kenny.

“The Denver Broomsticks,” said Stan, pointing at the orange and blue bedspread, which was emblazoned with a giant black D and a speeding broomstick. “Ninth in the league.”

Stan’s school spellbooks were stacked untidily in a corner, next to a pile of comics that all seemed to feature _The Adventures of Martin Miggs, the Crazy Muggle_. Stan’s wand was lying on top of a fish tank full of frog spawn on the windowsill, next to his fat gray owl, Sparky, who was snoozing in a patch of sun. Kenny stepped over a pack of Self-Shuffling playing cards on the floor and looked out of the window. In the backyard far below he could see a gang of gnomes sneaking one by one back through the Marshs’ fence. Then he turned to look at Stan, who was watching him almost nervously, as though waiting for his opinion.

“The quidditch stuff everywhere is kind of gay,” said Stan quickly. “And it’s not as big as that room you have at the Muggles. And I’m right underneath the ghoul in the attic so he’s always banging on the pipes and groaning and shit. . . .”

 But Kenny, grinning widely, said, “This is the best house I’ve ever been in.”

Stan’s ears went pink.


	4. At Flourish and Blotts

Life in South Park was as different as possible from life on Privet Drive. The Cartmans liked everything neat and ordered; the Marshs’ house burst with the strange and unexpected.

Kenny got a shock the first time he looked in the mirror over the living room mantelpiece and it shouted, “Tuck your shirt in, you bum!”

The ghoul in the attic howled and dropped pipes whenever he felt things were getting too quiet, and small explosions from Shelly’s bedroom were considered perfectly normal. What Kenny found most unusual about life at Stan’s, however, wasn’t the talking mirror or the clanking ghoul: It was the fact that everybody there seemed to like him.

Mrs. Marsh fussed over the state of his socks and tried to force him to eat fourth helpings at every meal. Mr. Marsh liked Kenny to sit next to him at the dinner table so that he could bombard him with questions about life with Muggles, asking him to explain how things like plugs and the postal service worked.

“Oh, wow!” he would say as Kenny talked him through using a telephone. “It is so startling how many ways Muggles have found solutions to not having magic.”

Kenny heard from Hogwarts one sunny morning about a week after he had arrived at the Burrow. He and Stan went down to breakfast to find Mr. and Mrs. Marsh and Shelly already sitting at the kitchen table. Kenny sat down and took the toast Mrs. Marsh offered him.

“You boys got letters from the school,” said Mr. Marsh, passing Kenny and Stan identical envelopes of yellowish parchment, addressed in green ink.

“PC Principal already knows you’re here, Kenny — he is so awesome. We’re totally PC bros, you know? Anyway, you got one, too,” he added to Shelly.

For a few minutes there was silence as they all read their letters. Kenny’s told him to catch the Hogwarts Express as usual from the Denver train station on September first. There was also a list of the new books he’d need for the coming year. second-year students will require:

 

_The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 by Miranda Goshawk_

_Break with a Banshee by Harrison Yates_

_Gadding with Ghouls by Harrison Yates_

_Holidays with Hags by Harrison Yates_

_Travels with Trolls by Harrison Yates_

_Voyages with Vampires by Harrison Yates_

_Wanderings with Werewolves by Harrison Yates_

_Year with the Yeti by Harrison Yates_

 

Shelly, who had finished her own list, peered over at Kenny’s.

 

 “You have to get all of Yates’ gay books, too!” she said. “The new Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher must be total queermo — I bet it’s a witch with a lady boner for that butt munch.”

 

At this point, Shelly caught her mother’s eye and quickly busied herself with the maple syrup.

 

 “Jesus Christ this is stupid,” said Stan, with a quick look at his parents. “Yates’ books are super expensive too. . . .”

 

“Well, we’ll manage,” said Mrs. Marsh, but she looked worried. “We should be able to get a lot of other stuff secondhand too.”

 

Suddenly, what looked like a molting, gray feather duster came flying through the window — at least, that was what Kenny thought it was, until he saw that it was breathing.

 

 “Sparky!” said Stan, taking the limp owl from his dad’s waffles and extracting a letter from under its wing. “Finally — it’s Kyle. I wrote him a letter saying we were going to try and rescue you from the Cartmans.”

 

He carried Sparky to a perch just inside the back door and tried to stand him on it, but Sparky flopped straight off again so Stan laid him on the kitchen counter instead, muttering, “Stupid fucking bird.”

 

Then he ripped open Kyle’s letter and read it out loud:

 

“ _‘Dear Stan, and Kenny if you’re there, I hope everything goes all right and that Kenny’s okay and that nobody does anything super illegal to get him out. Stan, don’t do stupid shit because that’ll get Kenny into trouble, too and Hogwarts wouldn’t be the same without your dumbasses running around. I would still visit you guys in jail though, but I’d be pissed at you for leaving me. I’ve been really worried about him and if Kenny’s all right, let me know as soon as you do, dude. Maybe try using another owl, though, because I think another delivery might kill this one. Your owl fucking sucks dude. I’m insanely busy with schoolwork, right now’_ — How, dude?” said Stan in horror. “It’s summer vacation! — ‘ _but I’m also playing this new video game. You need to get a TV and a gaming console so you can play me online! You’d love this type of Muggle shit, dude’_ What the fuck is a TV? _‘My family’s going to Denver next Wednesday to buy my new books so we should meet up in Diagon Alley? Let me know what’s happening as soon as you can, dude. Miss having you around all the time. Love, Kyle.’ ”_

 

“Well, that works out great! We can go and get all your things then, too,” said Mrs. Marsh, starting to clear the table. “What’re you kids up to today?”

 

Kenny, Stan, and Shelly were planning to head to a field nearby that Mr. Marsh had enchanted so they could fly broomsticks around without being seen. It was also surrounded by trees that blocked it from view of the town nearby, meaning that they could practice Quidditch too there, as long as they didn’t fly high.

They couldn’t use real Quidditch balls, which would have been hard to explain if they had escaped and flown away over the village; instead they threw apples for one another to catch. They took turns riding Kenny’s Nimbus Two Thousand, which was easily the best broom; Stan’s old Shooting Star was often outstripped by passing butterflies.

 

Five minutes later they were marching up the hill, broomsticks over their shoulders. They had asked Gary Harrison if he wanted to join them, but he had said he was busy. Kenny had only seen the only other wizard their age in town a handful of times so far; he stayed shut in his house the rest of the time.

 

“I wish I knew what he was up to,” said Shelly, frowning. “He hasn’t been himself all summer. His exam results came the day before you did; twelve O.W.L.s and he hardly gloated at all.”

 

“Ordinary Wizarding Levels,” Stan explained, seeing Kenny’s puzzled look. “His older brother got twelve, too. If we’re not careful, we’ll have another Head Boy in the town. I don’t think I could stand the shame.”

 

Bill was the oldest Harrison brother. He had already left Hogwarts. Kenny had never him, but knew that and Bill was in Egypt working for the wizard’s bank, Gringotts.

 

“I don’t know how Mom and Dad are going to afford all our school stuff this year,” said Shelly after a while. “Two sets of Yates books! We’ll need a second mortgage, for that turd sandwich!”

 

 Kenny said nothing. He felt a bit awkward. Stored in an underground vault at Gringotts in London was a small fortune from all of the donations people had given him after his parents had died. Of course, it was only in the wizarding world that he had money; you couldn’t use Galleons, Sickles, and Knuts in Muggle shops.

 

He had never mentioned his Gringotts bank account to the Cartmans; he didn’t think their horror of anything connected with magic would stretch to a large pile of gold.

 

Mrs. Marsh woke them all up early the following Wednesday. After a quick breakfast of bacon sandwiches, they pulled on their coats and Mrs. Marsh took a flowerpot off the kitchen mantelpiece and peered inside.

 

“We’re running low, Randy,” she sighed. “We’ll have to buy some more today. . . . Okay, guest first! After you, Kenny, dear!”

 

And she offered him the flowerpot. Kenny stared at them all watching him.

 

“W-what am I supposed to do with this?” he stammered.

 

“He’s never traveled by Floo powder before mom,” said Stan suddenly. “Sorry, Kenny, I totally forgot.”

 

“Oh, wow, really?” said Mr. Marsh. “But how did you get to Diagon Alley to buy your school supplies last year?”

 

“I took a bus —”

 

“Really? Wow, that’s so cool! Sharon, we should try that next year!” said Mr. Marsh eagerly. “Was it super fun? How—”

 

“Not now, Randy,” said Mrs. Marsh. “Floo powder’s a lot quicker, dear, but, if you’ve never used it before —”

 

“He’ll be fine, Mom,” said Shelly. “Kenny, watch us first.”

 

She took a pinch of glittering powder out of the flowerpot, stepped up to the fire, and threw the powder into the flames. With a roar, the fire turned emerald green and rose higher than Shelly, who stepped right into it, shouted, “Diagon Alley!” and vanished.

 

“You have to speak clearly, dear,” Mrs. Marsh told Kenny as Stan dipped his hand into the flowerpot. “And be sure to get out at the right grate. . . .”

 

“The right what?” said Kenny nervously as the fire roared and whipped Stan out of sight, too.

 

 “Well, there are an awful lot of wizard fires to choose from, you know, but as long as you speak clearly —”

 

“He’ll be fine, Sharon, he’s Kenny McCormick!” said Mr. Marsh, helping himself to Floo powder, too.

 

“Randy, stop saying that! What if he gets lost? How would we explain that to his aunt and uncle?”

 

“They wouldn’t give a shit,” Kenny reassured her. “My cousin would think it was the best thing he’d heard all year if I got lost in a fireplace, don’t worry about that —”

 

“Well . . . all right . . . you go after Randy,” said Mrs. Marsh. “Remember, when you get into the fire, say where you’re going —”

 

“And keep your elbows tucked in,” Randy advised.

 

“And your eyes shut,” said Mrs. Marsh. “The soot burns and don’t fidget, or you could fall out of the wrong fireplace — but don’t panic and get out too early; wait until you see Shelly and Stanley.”

 

Trying hard to bear all this in mind, Kenny took a pinch of Floo powder and walked to the edge of the fire. He took a deep breath, scattered the powder into the flames, and stepped forward; the fire felt like a warm breeze; he opened his mouth and immediately swallowed a lot of hot ash.

 

“D-Dia-gon Alley,” he coughed.

 

It felt as though he were being sucked down a giant drain. He seemed to be spinning very fast — the roaring in his ears was deafening — he tried to keep his eyes open but the whirl of green flames made him feel sick — something hard knocked his elbow and he tucked it in tightly, still spinning and spinning — now it felt as though cold hands were slapping his face — squinting through the hood of his parka he saw a blurred stream of fireplaces and snatched glimpses of the rooms beyond — his bacon sandwiches were churning inside him — he closed his eyes again wishing it would stop, and then — He fell, face forward, onto cold stone and felt the bridge of his nose snap. Dizzy, bloody, and bruised, covered in soot, he got gingerly to his feet, holding his broken nose as it streamed thick red liquid down his face, dripping slowly onto the carpet below.

 

He was alone, but where he was, he had no idea. All he could tell was that he was standing in the stone fireplace of what looked like a large, dimly lit wizard’s shop — but nothing in here looked like it belonged on a Hogwarts school supplies list.

 

A glass case nearby held a withered hand on a cushion, a bloodstained pack of cards, and a staring glass eye. Evil-looking masks stared down from the walls, an assortment of human bones laid on the counter, and rusty, spiked instruments hung from the ceiling.

 

Even worse, the dark, narrow street Kenny could see through the dusty store window was definitely not Diagon Alley. The sooner he got out of here, the better.

 

Nose still stinging where it had hit the hearth, Kenny made his way swiftly and silently toward the door, but before he’d got halfway toward it, two people appeared on the other side of the glass — and one of them was the very last person Kenny wanted to meet when he was lost, covered in soot, and streaming blood from a broken nose: Craig Tucker.

 

 Kenny looked quickly around and spotted a large black cabinet to his left; he shot inside of it and pulled the doors closed, leaving a small crack open to peek through. Seconds later, a bell clanged, and Craig stepped into the store. Tweek was there and holding his hand, which was not shocking considering those two were basically joined at the hip, and there was a man that could only be Craig’s father. He had the same pale, pointed face and identical cold, gray eyes. Mr. Tucker crossed the shop, looking lazily at the items on display, and rang a bell on the counter before turning to his son and his boyfriend saying, “Touch nothing, boys.”

 

Craig, who had reached for the glass eye with his free hand, said, “You said you were going to buy me a present.”

 

“I said I would buy you a racing broom,” said his father, drumming his fingers on the counter.

 

 “And what good is that gonna do me if I’m not on the House team?” said Craig, looking sulky and bad-tempered, Tweek was shaking and looking nervously at his surroundings but Craig seemed too angry to care. “Kenny fucking McCormick got a Nimbus Two Thousand last year and special permission from PC Principal so he could play for Gryffindor. He’s not even that good, it’s just because he’s famous . . . The only reason he’s famous is because he has a stupid scar on his forehead. . . .” Tucker bent down to examine a shelf full of skulls. “. . . everyone thinks he’s so smart and awesome. Fucking McCormick with his goddamned scar and his stupid ass broomstick —”

 

“You have told me this at least a dozen times already. Poor Tweek here must be getting jealous that McCormick is getting so much of your attention without even being present,” said Mr. Tucker, with a quelling look at his son. “And I would remind you that it is not — prudent — to appear less than fond of Kenny McCormick, not when most of our kind regard him as the hero who made the Dark Lord disappear — ah, Mr. Borgin.”

 

A stooping man had appeared behind the counter, smoothing his greasy hair back from his face.

 

 “Mr. Tucker, what a pleasure to see you again,” said Mr. Borgin in a voice as oily as his hair. “Delighted — and young Master Tucker and Tweak, too — charmed. How may I be of assistance? I must show you, just in today, and very reasonably priced —”

 

“I’m not buying today, Mr. Borgin, but selling,” said Mr. Tucker.

 

“Selling?” The smile faded slightly from Mr. Borgin’s face.

 

“You have heard, of course, that the Ministry is conducting more raids,” said Mr. Tucker, taking a roll of parchment from his inside pocket and unraveling it for Mr. Borgin to read. “I have a few — ah — items at home that might embarrass me, if the Ministry were to call. . . .”

 

Mr. Borgin fixed a pair of pince-nez to his nose and looked down the list. “The Ministry wouldn’t presume to trouble you, sir, surely?”

 

Mr. Tucker’s lip curled.

 

“I have not been visited yet. The name Tucker still commands a certain respect, yet the Ministry grows ever more meddlesome. There are rumors about a new Muggle Protection Act — no doubt that flea-bitten, Muggle-loving fool Randy Marsh is behind it —” Kenny felt a hot surge of anger. “— and as you see, certain of these poisons might make it appear —”

 

“I understand, sir, of course,” said Mr. Borgin. “Let me see . . .”

 

“Can I have that?” interrupted Craig, pointing at the withered hand on its cushion.

 

“Ah, the Hand of Glory!” said Mr. Borgin, abandoning Mr. Tucker’s list and scurrying over to Craig and Tweek. “Insert a candle and it gives light only to the holder! Best friend of thieves and plunderers! Your son has fine taste, sir.”

 

“I hope my son will amount to more than a thief or a plunderer, Borgin,” said Mr. Tucker coldly, and Mr. Borgin said quickly, “No offense, sir, no offense meant —”

 

“Though if his grades don’t pick up,” said Mr. Tucker, more coldly still, “that may indeed be all he is fit for —”

 

“It’s not my fault,” retorted Craig. “The teachers all have favorites, that Kyle Broflovski —”

 

“I would have thought you’d be ashamed that a boy of no wizard family beat you in every exam,” snapped Mr. Tucker.

 

“Ha!” said Kenny under his breath, pleased to see Craig looking both abashed and angry.

 

“It’s the same all over,” said Mr. Borgin, in his oily voice. “Wizard blood is counting for less everywhere —”

 

“Not with me,” said Mr. Tucker, his long nostrils flaring.

 

“No, sir, nor with me, sir,” said Mr. Borgin, with a deep bow.

 

“In that case, perhaps we can return to my list,” said Mr. Tucker shortly. “I am in something of a hurry, Borgin, I have important business elsewhere today —”

 

They started to haggle. Kenny watched nervously as Craig and Tweek drew nearer and nearer to his hiding place, examining the objects for sale. They talked quietly amongst each other, Craig occasionally reaching up a hand to lovingly move a piece of hair away from Tweek’s eye or kissing him quickly. That was a new, but certainly not surprising development and if Kenny actually liked either of them, he would’ve been happy for them. It wasn’t that he hated Tweek so much though as he hated that he liked Craig.

 

He watched as they paused to examine a long coil of hangman’s rope and to read, Craig smirking, the card propped on a magnificent necklace of opals, Caution: Do Not Touch. Cursed — Has Claimed the Lives of Nineteen Muggle Owners to Date.

 

Craig and Tweek turned away and saw the cabinet right in front of them. They walked forward — Craig stretched out his hand for the handle —

 

“Done,” said Mr. Tucker at the counter. “Come, boys —”

 

Kenny wiped his forehead on his sleeve as Craig and Tweek turned away.

 

“Good day to you, Mr. Borgin. I’ll expect you at the manor tomorrow to pick up the goods.”

 

The moment the door had closed, Mr. Borgin dropped his oily manner.

 

“Good day yourself, Mister Tucker, and if the stories are true, you haven’t sold me half of what’s hidden in your manor. . . .”

 

Muttering darkly, Mr. Borgin disappeared into a back room. Kenny waited for a minute in case he came back, then, quietly as he could, slipped out of the cabinet, past the glass cases, and out of the shop door. Clutching his hand to his broken nose, Kenny stared around. He had emerged into a dingy alleyway that seemed to be made up entirely of shops devoted to the Dark Arts. The one he’d just left, Borgin and Burkes, looked like the largest, but opposite was a nasty window display of shrunken heads and, two doors down, a large cage was alive with gigantic black spiders.

 

Two shabby-looking wizards were watching him from the shadow of a doorway, muttering to each other. Feeling jumpy, Kenny set off, trying to keep blood from dripping onto his parka and hoping against hope he’d be able to find a way out of here.

 

An old wooden street sign hanging over a shop selling poisonous candles told him he was in Knockturn Alley. This didn’t help, as Kenny had never heard of such a place. He supposed he hadn’t spoken clearly enough through his mouthful of ashes back in the Marshs’ fire.

 

Trying to stay calm, he wondered what to do.

 

“Not lost are you, my dear?” said a voice in his ear, making him jump. An aged witch stood in front of him, holding a tray of what looked horribly like whole human fingernails. She leered at him, showing mossy teeth.

 

Kenny backed away.

 

“I’m fine, thanks,” he said. “I’m just —”

 

“KENNY! What do you think you’re doing down there?”

 

Kenny’s heart leapt. So did the witch; a load of fingernails cascaded down over her feet and she cursed as the massive form of Chef, the Hogwarts Head Chef, came striding toward them, beetle-black eyes flashing over his great bristling beard.

 

“Chef!” Kenny croaked in relief. “I was lost — Floo powder —”

 

Chef seized Kenny by the scruff of the neck and pulled him away from the witch, knocking the tray right out of her hands. Her shrieks followed them all the way along the twisting alleyway out into bright sunlight. Kenny saw a familiar, snow-white marble building in the distance — Gringotts Bank. Chef had steered him right into Diagon Alley.

 

“You’re a mess!” said Chef gruffly, brushing soot off Kenny so forcefully he nearly knocked him into a barrel of dragon dung outside an apothecary. “Skulkin’ around Knockturn Alley — it’s a bad place, Kenny — you don’t want no one to see you there —”

 

“I realized that,” said Kenny, ducking as Chef made to brush him off again. “I told you, I was lost — what were you doing down there?”

 

“Well I was lookin’ for a Flesh-Eating Slug Repellent,” growled Chef. “They’re ruining the school cabbages. You’re not here on your own, are you?”

 

“I’m staying with the Marshs but we got separated,” Kenny explained. “I need to find them. . . .”

 

 They set off together down the street.

 

“How come you never wrote back to me?” said Chef as Kenny jogged alongside him (he had to take three steps to every stride of Chef’s enormous boots).

 

Kenny explained all about Dobby and the Cartmans.

 

“Nasty Muggles,” growled Chef. “If I had known —”

 

“Kenny! Dude! Over here!”

 

Kenny looked up and saw Kyle Broflovski standing at the top of the white flight of steps to Gringotts. He ran down to meet them, his bushy ginger curls partly mushed under a green ushanka.

 

“Dude, what happened to your nose? Oh, hey Chef — Jesus Christ, dude, you’re covered in blood. Anyways, wanna come with me into Gringotts?”

 

“I have to find the Marshs,” said Kenny.

 

“You won’t be looking long, children,” Chef said with a grin.

 

Kenny and Kyle looked around: Sprinting up the crowded street were Stan, Shelly, Mrs. Marsh, and Mr. Marsh.

 

“Kenny,” Mr. Marsh panted. “Oh my God, I was so startled! That was really startling! We thought you had gone one grate too far. . . .”

 

He mopped his face, sweat dripping from his mustache and dark pit stains forming on his standard light blue button-up.

 

“Sharon was freaking out — I was too —”

 

“Where did you get out?” Stan asked.

 

“Knockturn Alley,” said Chef grimly.

 

“Sweet!” said Shelly.

 

“We’ve never been allowed to go,” said Stan enviously.

 

“Well, I hope not,” growled Chef.

 

Mrs. Marsh finally caught up, looking just as winded as Randy.

 

“Oh, Kenny — oh dear — you could have been ended up anywhere — And look at you all covered in blood! Is your nose broken?”

 

Gasping for breath she pulled out her wand and with a wave she had cleared off all the soot Chef hadn’t managed to beat away and the dark blood spots. Mr. Marsh took Kenny’s hand away from him nose, gave it a tap of his wand, and with an uncomfortable pinch, it was good as new.

 

“Well, I’ve gotta go,” said Chef, who was having his hand wrung by Mrs. Marsh (“Knockturn Alley! If you hadn’t found him, Chef!”). “See you at Hogwarts, children!”

 

And he strode away, head and shoulders taller than anyone else in the packed street.

 

“Guess who I saw at Borgin and Burkes?” Kenny asked Stan and Kyle as they climbed the Gringotts steps. “Craig, Tweek, and Craig’s father. I think Tweek and Craig are dating now because they were holding hands and kissing and shit.”

 

“Did Thomas Tucker buy anything?” said Mr. Marsh sharply behind them.

 

“No, he was selling —”

 

“So he’s worried, excellent,” said Mr. Marsh with grim satisfaction. “Oh, man, I’d love to get Thomas Tucker for something. . . .”

 

“Be careful, Randy,” said Mrs. Marsh sharply as they were bowed into the bank by a goblin at the door. “That family’s trouble. Don’t go biting off more than you can chew —”

 

“So you think I can’t take Thomas Tucker?” said Mr. Marsh indignantly, but he was distracted almost at once by the sight of Kyle’s family, who were standing at the counter that ran all along the great marble hall, waiting for Kyle to introduce them.

 

“Oh man it is so cool that you guys are Muggles!” said Mr. Marsh delightedly. “Gerald, bro, we need to get a drink! What’re you guys doing? Oh, cool! You’re exchanging Muggle money for real money. Shelly, look! Oh my God, Sharon, aren’t muggles so cool!” He pointed excitedly at the ten dollar bills in Mr. Broflovski’s hand.

 

“Randy!” Sharon exclaimed, slapping his hand away before returning to her conversation with Sheila.

 

“We’ll meet you back here, dude,” Stan said to Kyle as the Marshs and Kenny were led off to their underground vaults by another Gringotts goblin.

 

The vaults were reached by means of small, goblin-driven carts that sped along miniature train tracks through the bank’s underground tunnels. Kenny enjoyed the breakneck journey down to the Marshs’ vault, but felt dreadful, far worse than he had in Knockturn Alley, when it was opened. There was a very modest pile of silver Sickles inside, and just some gold Galleons mixed in. Mrs. Marsh felt right into the corners before sweeping the whole lot into her bag. Kenny felt even worse when they reached his vault.

 

He tried to block the contents from view as he hastily shoved handfuls of coins into a leather bag. Back outside on the marble steps, they all separated.

 

Stan muttered vaguely about needing a new quill. Shelly had spotted their friend from Hogwarts, Larry Feegan. Mrs. Marsh and Mrs. Broflovski were going to a secondhand robe shop. Mr. Marsh was insisting on taking Mr. Broflovski off to the Leaky Cauldron for a drink.

 

“Bubbeh, take you brother with you! You know he loves looking at magic stuff!” Mrs. Broflovski told Kyle with a stern look, gently pushing forward a young boy with black hair wearing a sail boat shirt and looking at everything like it was the best thing he’d ever seen.

 

“Aw, mom! It’s embarrassing having my Muggle little brother follow me around here!” Kyle protested.

 

“Kyle! You will not call your brother a Muggle! And if you want me to even think about spending money on any school books for you today, you will take your brother and be nice to him!” Mrs. Broflovski commanded, face as red as her giant beehive.

 

“Fine!” Kyle growled grabbing his little brother’s hand and dragging him down the street, “C’mon you little dildo!”

 

“We’ll all meet at Flourish and Blotts in an hour to buy your schoolbooks,” said Mrs. Marsh, setting off with Mrs. Broflovski. “And don’t you dare go near Knockturn Alley!” she shouted at the Shelly’s retreating back.

 

Kenny, Stan, Ike, and Kyle strolled off along the winding, cobbled street. The bag of gold, silver, and bronze jangling cheerfully in Kenny’s pocket was clamoring to be spent, so he bought four large strawberry-and-peanut-butter ice creams, which they slurped happily as they wandered up the alley, examining the fascinating shop windows.

 

Stan gazed longingly at a full set of Denver Broomsticks robes in the windows of Quality Quidditch Supplies until Kyle dragged them off to buy ink and parchment next door.

 

In Gambol and Japes Wizarding Joke Shop, they met Shelly and Larry Feegan, who were stocking up on Dr. Filibuster’s Fabulous Wet-Start, No-Heat Fireworks, and in a tiny junk shop full of broken wands, lopsided brass scales, and old cloaks covered in potion stains they found Gary Harrison, deeply immersed in a small and deeply boring book called Prefects Who Gained Power.

 

“A study of Hogwarts prefects and their later careers,” Stan read aloud off the back cover. “That sounds fun. . . .”

 

“Go away,” Gary snapped.

 

“He’s such a hard ass; he’s got his future all planned out. . . . He wants to be Minister of Magic . . .” Stan told Kenny, Ike, and Kyle in an undertone as they left Gary to it.

 

An hour later, they headed for Flourish and Blotts. They were by no means the only ones making their way to the bookshop. As they approached it, they saw to their surprise a large crowd jostling outside the doors, trying to get in. The reason for this was proclaimed by a large banner stretched across the upper windows: _HARRISON YATES will be signing copies of his autobiography MAGICAL ME today 12:30 p.m. to 4:30 p.m._

 

“Dude, do you think we might actually meet him?” Kyle practically squealed, and Ike complained that he was squeezing his hand too hard. Kyle tried to act more nonchalant when he saw Kenny and Stan’s questioning looks towards him. “I mean, he’s written, like, almost the whole booklist so it’d be cool to meet him. He’s probably a douche or something though with hair that perfect.”

 

“Who cares if we meet him, dude?” Stan grumbled as they began elbowing their way through. “That guys a fucking queermo and probably sucks his own dick for breakfast. Only lonely old housewife witches read that pansy ass bullshit.”

 

And it was true, the crowd seemed to be made up mostly of witches around Mrs. Marsh’s age. A harassed-looking wizard stood at the door, saying, “Calmly, please, ladies. . . . Don’t push, there . . . mind the books, now. . . .”

 

Kyle spirits seemed to be considerably downtrodden as he, Ike, Kenny, and Stan squeezed inside with Ike basically dragging him along. A long line wound right to the back of the shop, where Harrison Yates was signing his books. They each grabbed a copy of The Standard Book of Spells, Grade 2 and sneaked up the line to where the rest of the Marshs were standing with Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski.

 

“Oh, there you are, good,” said Mrs. Marsh. She sounded breathless and kept patting her hair. “We’ll be able to see him in a minute. . . .”

 

Harrison Yates came slowly into view, seated at a table surrounded by large pictures of his own face, all winking and flashing dazzlingly white teeth at the crowd. The real Yates was wearing robes of forget-me-not blue that exactly matched his eyes; his pointed wizard’s hat was set at a jaunty angle on his wavy hair. A short, irritable-looking man was dancing around taking photographs with a large black camera that emitted puffs of purple smoke with every blinding flash.

 

“Out of the way, there,” he snarled at Stan, moving back to get a better shot. “This is for the Daily Prophet —”

 

“Big deal, asshole,” said Stan, rubbing his foot where the photographer had stepped on it.  

 

Harrison Yates heard him. He looked up. He saw Stan —and then he saw Kenny. He stared.

 

Then he leapt to his feet and positively shouted, “It can’t be Kenny McCormick?”

 

The crowd parted, whispering excitedly; Yates dived forward, seized Kenny’s arm, and pulled him to the front. The crowd burst into applause. Kenny’s face burned as Yates shook his hand for the photographer, who was clicking away madly, wafting thick smoke over the Marshs.

 

“Nice big smile, Kenny,” said Yates, through his own gleaming teeth as Kenny tried to struggle out his grip. “Together, you and I are worth the front page.”

 

“Fuck off, dude!” Kenny protested but Yates’ grip never faltered.

 

When he finally let go of Kenny’s hand, Kenny could hardly feel his fingers. He tried to storm back over to the Marshs, but Yates threw an arm around his shoulders and clamped him tightly to his side, ignoring the dirty looks he received from the boy as he did it.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said loudly, waving for quiet. “What an extraordinary moment this is! The perfect moment for me to make a little announcement I’ve been sitting on for some time! When young Kenny here stepped into Flourish and Blotts today, he only wanted to buy my autobiography — which I shall be happy to present him now, free of charge —” The crowd applauded again.

 

“He had no idea,” Yates continued, giving Kenny a little shake that made his scowl deepen and his struggling intensify, “that he would shortly be getting much, much more than my book, Magical Me. He and his schoolmates will, in fact, be getting the real magical me. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I have great pleasure and pride in announcing that this September, I will be taking up the post of Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher at Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry!”

 

The crowd cheered and clapped and Kenny found himself being presented with the entire works of Harrison Yates. Staggering slightly under their weight, he managed to make his way out of the limelight to the edge of the room, where Shelly was standing next to her new cauldron.

 

“You have these,” Kenny mumbled to her, tipping the books into the cauldron. “I’ll buy my own —”

 

“I’m sure you loved that, didn’t you, McCormick?” said a voice Kenny had no trouble recognizing.

 

He straightened up and found himself almost face-to-face with Craig Tucker, who was wearing his usual sneer, no longer holding hands with Tweek but the boy wasn’t far behind him along with the rest of his usual gang that Kenny had not missed over the summer break.

 

“Superstar Kenny McCormick,” said Token.

 

“The asshole can’t even go into a book store without having to make the front page,” Clyde sneered.

 

“Leave him alone, guys, he didn’t want all that!” said Tweek. It was the first time he’d really spoken in front of Kenny in a way that wasn’t a panicked outburst. He was glaring at Craig and Kenny suspected this had something to do with a mixture of them no longer holding in front of other people and what Mr. Tucker had said about him in the bookshop.

 

“McCormick, you’ve got yourself a boyfriend!” drawled Craig, eyes dancing murderously. He gave the shaky blonde boy a shove forward that made him stumble a little and Kenny caught him by the shoulders, steadying him. “Well, Tweek, why don’t you go kiss him if you love him so much! He’s right there, go ahead.”

 

Kenny let go of the boy and he stood next to him shooting daggers at Craig. Tweek’s eyes had started to water and he went scarlet as Stan and Kyle fought their way over, both clutching stacks of Yates’ books.

 

“Oh, Jesus, it’s you guys,” said Stan, looking at Craig as if he were something unpleasant on the sole of his shoe. “Bet you’re surprised to see Kenny here!”

 

“Not as surprised as I am to see you in a store, Marsh,” retorted Craig.

 

“I’m sure you family won’t be able to eat for a month after paying for all those,” Token snickered.

 

Stan went as red as Tweek. He dropped his books into the cauldron, too, and started toward Craig’s gang, but Kenny and Kyle grabbed the back of his jacket.

 

“Stan!” said Mr. Marsh, struggling over with Shelly. “What are you doing? It’s way too crowded in here, let’s go outside.”

 

“Well, well, well — Randy Marsh.”

 

It was Mr. Tucker. He stood with his hand on Craig’s shoulder, sneering in just the same way.

 

 “Thomas,” said Mr. Marsh, nodding coldly.

 

“Busy time at the Ministry, I hear,” said Mr. Tucker. “All those raids . . . I hope they’re paying you overtime?”

 

He reached into Shelly’s cauldron and extracted, from amid the glossy Yates books, a very old, very battered copy of _A Fourth Year Guide to Transfiguration._

 

“Obviously not,” Mr. Tucker said. “Dear me, what’s the use of being a disgrace to the name of wizard if they don’t even pay you well for it?”

 

Mr. Marsh flushed darker than either Stan or Tweek.

 

“Well we have very different ideas of what disgraces the name of wizardry, Tucker,” he said.

 

 “Clearly,” said Mr. Tucker, his pale eyes straying to Mr. and Mrs. Broflovski, who were watching apprehensively, Mrs. Broflovski’s hands gripping Ike’s shoulders tightly. “The company you keep, Marsh . . . and I thought your family could sink no lower —”

 

There was a thud of metal as Shelly’s cauldron went flying; Mr. Marsh had thrown himself at Mr. Tucker, knocking him backward into a bookshelf.

 

Dozens of heavy spellbooks came thundering down on all their heads; there was a yell of, “Get him, Dad!” from Shelly; Mrs. Marsh was shrieking, “No, Randy, no!”; the crowd stampeded backward, knocking more shelves over; “Gentlemen, please — please!” cried the assistant, and then, louder than all — “Break it up, there, men, break it up —”

 

Chef was wading toward them through the sea of books. In an instant he had pulled Mr. Marsh and Mr. Tucker apart. Mr. Marsh had a cut lip and Mr. Tucker had been hit in the eye by an Encyclopedia of Toadstools. He was still holding Shelly’s old Transfiguration book. He thrust it at her, his eyes glittering with malice.

 

“Here, girl — take your book — it’s the best your father can give you —”

 

Pulling himself out of Chef’s grip he beckoned to Craig’s gang and swept from the shop. Craig looked over his shoulder and face flashed with hurt before shifting to something ugly when he saw Tweek hadn’t followed after him like Clyde and Token had. In fact, Tweek was refusing to look at him, instead, staring intently at the wall while the taller boy practically slammed the door of the store shut. Tweek didn’t look his way until his friend’s figures were retreating down the street. He looked nervously at Kenny and took a hesitant step their way and when nobody objected, he sidled into their group, shaking closely next to Kenny, brushing against his sleeve with every quiver. Kenny gave him a warm smile and saw Stan and Kyle exchange confused glances, having missed their spat earlier, but didn’t say anything to the boy which Kenny took as a form of acceptance.

 

 “You should’ve ignored that old, evil, cracker, Randy,” said Chef, almost lifting Mr. Marsh off his feet as he straightened his shirt. “He’s just plain evil to the core, that whole family, everyone knows that — no Tucker’s worth listening to — bad blood, they only care about themselves— come on now — let’s get outta here.”

 

The assistant looked as though he wanted to stop them from leaving, but he barely came up to Chef’s waist and seemed to think better of it. They hurried up the street, the Broflovskis shaking with fright and Mrs. Marsh beside herself with fury.

 

“A fine example to set for your children . . . I expect this at a little quidditch league game but at a book store is an all-time low for you Randy . . . what Harrison Yates must’ve thought —”

 

“That ass munch looked thrilled, mom,” said Shelly. “Did you hear him when we were leaving? He was asking that chode from the Daily Prophet if he could include the fight into his article — talking about great publicity and all that bullshit —”

 

“Are you alright, Tweek?” Kenny asked quietly while the kids walked behind the adults. The boy was still shaking and looked on the verge of tears.

 

“Y-yeah, I guess,” he sniffled.

 

“What happened, dude?” Kyle asked, and Kenny was surprised he’d held his questions that long.

 

“It’s stupid and Craig would kick my ass if he ever found out I told you,” Tweek rubbed at his eyes with quivering hands. “He’ll probably kick my ass anyways for today.”

 

“Hey, I know he’s your friend and all, but if he ever gives you a problem, you can tell us,” Kenny said earnestly, looking into Tweek’s pale green eyes.

 

“Yeah, I’d love the chance to kick Craig’s ass again,” Stan chimed in and Kyle rolled his eyes before punching him in the arm.

 

“Th-thanks you guys,” Tweek mumbled, giving a tiny smile.

 

It was a quiet walk as the group headed back to the fireside in the Leaky Cauldron, where Kenny, the Marshs, and all their shopping would be traveling back to South Park using Floo powder. Tweek had said good bye quickly to his class mates before disappearing in the fire. Stan and Kenny were saying goodbye to Kyle and Ike while their parents exchanged good byes as well. The Broflovskis were leaving the bar for the Muggle street on the other side; Mr. Marsh started to ask them how bus stops worked, but stopped quickly at the look on Mrs. Marsh’s face.

 

Kenny made sure to pull his hood tighter and covered his nose with his hand before helping himself to Floo powder. It definitely wasn’t his favorite way to travel.


	5. The Whomping Willow

The end of the summer vacation came too quickly for Kenny’s liking. He was looking forward to getting back to Hogwarts, but his month in South Park had been the happiest of his life. It was difficult not to feel jealous of Stan when he thought of the Cartman's and the sort of welcome he could expect next time he turned up on their doorstep.

On their last evening, Mrs. Marsh conjured up a sumptuous dinner that included all of Kenny’s favorite things, ending with a mouthwatering cheesecake. Shelly rounded off the evening with a display of Filibuster fireworks; they filled the kitchen with red and blue stars that bounced from ceiling to wall for at least half an hour. Then it was time for a last mug of hot chocolate and bed.

It took a while to get going the next morning. They were up at dawn, but somehow they still seemed to have a ton to do. Mrs. Marsh ran around in a bad mood looking for spare socks and quills; people kept colliding on the stairs, half-dressed with pieces of toast in their hands; and Mr. Marsh nearly broke his neck, tripping over a Underpants Gnome as he crossed the yard carrying Shelly’s trunk to the car.

Kenny couldn’t see how six people, four large trunks and three owls, were going to fit into one small Prius. He hadn't thought, of course, about the special features that Mr. Marsh had added.

“Uh, don't say anything to Sharon,” he whispered to Kenny as he opened the trunk and showed him how it had been magically expanded so that the luggage fit easily.

When they were finally all in the car, Mrs. Marsh glanced into the back seat, where Kenny, Stan, Shelly, and Gary, who was riding with them, were all sitting comfortably side by side, and said, “Muggles _do_ know more than we give them credit for, don’t they, Randy?” She got into the front seat, which had been stretched so that it was as wide as a park bench. “I mean, you’d never know it was this roomy from the outside.”

Mr. Marsh started up the engine and they drove out of the driveway, Kenny turning back for a last look at the house. He barely had time to wonder when he’d see it again when they were back — Shelly had forgotten her box of Filibuster fireworks. Five minutes after that, they skidded to a halt in the yard so that Shelly could run in for her broomstick. They had almost reached the highway when Shelly shrieked that she’d left her wand. By the time she had clambered back into the car, they were running very late, and tempers were running high.

Mr. Marsh glanced at his watch and then at his wife.

 “Sharon, honey —”

“ _No,_ Randy —”

“No one would see — this little button here is an Invisibility Booster I installed — that’d get us up in the air — then we'd be flying above the clouds. We’d be there in ten minutes and no one would ever know —”

 “ _Randy,_ not in broad daylight —”

They reached the train station at 11:45. Mr. Marsh dashed across the road to get carts for their trunks and they all hurried into the station.

Kenny had caught the Hogwarts Express the previous year. The tricky part was getting onto platform nine and three-quarters, which wasn’t visible to the Muggle eye. What you had to do was walk through the solid barrier dividing platforms nine and ten. It didn’t hurt, but it had to be done carefully so that none of the Muggles noticed you vanishing.

“Gary first,” said Mrs. Marsh, looking nervously at the clock overhead, which showed they had only five minutes to disappear casually through the barrier.

Gary strode briskly forward and vanished. Mr. Marsh went next; Shelly followed.

“I’ll go next and you two come right after us,” Mrs. Marsh told Kenny and Stan, setting off. In the blink of an eye they were gone.

“Let’s go together, we’ve only got a minute,” Stan said to Kenny.

Kenny made sure that Lemmiwinks’ cage was safely wedged on top of his trunk and wheeled his cart around to face the barrier. He felt perfectly confident; this wasn’t nearly as uncomfortable as using Floo powder. Both of them bent low over the handles of their trolleys and walked purposefully toward the barrier, gathering speed. A few feet away from it, they broke into a run and —

CRASH.

Both carts hit the barrier and bounced backward; Stan’s trunk fell off with a loud thump, Kenny was knocked off his feet, and Lemmiwinks’ cage bounced onto the shiny floor, and she rolled away, shrieking indignantly; people all around them stared and a guard nearby yelled, “Hey, what the hell are you kids doing?”

“We lost control of the carts,” Kenny gasped, clutching his ribs as he got up. Stan ran to pick up Lemmiwinks, who was causing such a scene that there was a lot of muttering about cruelty to animals from the surrounding crowd.

“Why can’t we get through?” Kenny hissed to Stan.

“I don’t know, dude —”

Stan looked wildly around. A dozen curious people were still watching them.

“Shit, dude, we’re gonna miss the train,” Stan whispered. “Why the fuck would the gateway seal itself —”

Kenny looked up at the giant clock with a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach. Ten seconds . . . nine seconds . . .

He wheeled his trolley forward cautiously until it was right against the barrier and pushed with all his might. The metal remained solid.

Three seconds . . . two seconds . . . one second . . .

“It’s gone,” said Stan, sounding stunned. “The train left. What if my Mom and Dad can’t get back through here? Do you have any Muggle money?”

Kenny gave a hollow laugh.

“The Cartmans haven’t given me any money in about six years.”

Stan pressed his ear to the cold barrier.

“I can’t hear anything,” he said tensely. “What are we gonna do, dude? Jesus Christ, I don’t know how long it’ll take my Mom and Dad to get back to us.”

They looked around. People were still watching them, mainly because of Lemmiwinks’ continuing screeches.

“We should go and wait by the car,” said Kenny. “We’re attracting way too much atten —”

“Dude!” said Stan, his eyes gleaming. “The car!”

“What about it?”

 “We can fly the car to Hogwarts!”

“But I thought —”

“We’re stuck, right? And we’ve got to get to school, right? And even underage wizards are allowed to use magic if it’s a real emergency, section nineteen or something of the Restriction of Thingy —”

“But your mom and dad . . .” said Kenny, pushing against the barrier again in the vain hope that it would give way. “How are they supposed to get home?”

“They don’t need the car!” said Stan impatiently. “They know how to Apparate! You know, just vanish and reappear at home! They only use Floo powder and the car because we’re all underage and we’re not allowed to Apparate yet. . . .”

Kenny’s feeling of panic turned suddenly to excitement.

“Can you fly it?”

“Hell yeah I can,” said Stan, wheeling his trolley around to face the exit. “C’mon, let’s go. If we hurry we can follow the Hogwarts Express —”

And they marched off through the crowd of curious Muggles, out of the station and back onto the side road where the Prius was parked.

Stan unlocked the cavernous trunk with a series of taps from his wand. They heaved their luggage back in, put Lemmiwinks on the back seat, and got into the front.

“Make sure no one’s watching,” said Stan, starting the ignition with another tap of his wand. Kenny stuck his head out of the window: Traffic was rumbling along the main road ahead, but their street was empty.

“Okay,” he said.

Stan pressed a tiny silver button on the dashboard. The car around them vanished — and so did they. Kenny could feel the seat vibrating beneath him, hear the engine, feel his hands on his knees and his seat belt tight across his chest, but for all he could see, he had become a pair of eyeballs, floating a few feet above the ground in a dingy street full of parked cars.

“Let’s go,” said Stan’s voice from his right.

And the ground and the dirty buildings on either side fell away, dropping out of sight as the car rose; in seconds, the whole of Denver lay, smoky and glittering, below them.

Then there was a popping noise and the car, Kenny, and Stan reappeared.

“Shit!” said Stan, jabbing at the Invisibility Booster. “It’s fucking busted, dude —”

Both of them pummeled it. The car vanished. Then it flickered back again.

“Hold on!” Stan yelled, and he slammed his foot on the accelerator; they shot straight into the low, woolly clouds and everything turned dull and foggy.

“Now what?” said Kenny, blinking at the solid mass of cloud pressing in on them from all sides.

“We need to see the train to know what direction to go in,” said Stan.

“Dip back down again — quickly —”

They dropped back beneath the clouds and twisted around in their seats, squinting at the ground.

“I can see it!” Kenny yelled. “Right ahead — there!”

The Hogwarts Express was streaking along below them like a scarlet snake.

“We're headed north,” said Stan, checking the compass on the dashboard.

“Okay, we’ll just have to check on it every half hour — hold on —”

And they shot up through the clouds. A minute later, they burst out into a blaze of sunlight.

It was a different world. The wheels of the car skimmed the sea of fluffy cloud, the sky a bright, endless blue under the blinding white sun.

“All we’ve got to worry about now are airplanes,” said Stan.

They looked at each other and started to laugh; for a long time, they couldn’t stop.

It was as though they had been plunged into a dream. This, thought Kenny, was surely the only way to travel — past swirls and turrets of snowy cloud, in a car full of hot, bright sunlight, with a giant stash of candy in the glove compartment, and the prospect of seeing Shelly’s jealous face when they landed smoothly and spectacularly on the sweeping lawn in front of Hogwarts castle.

They made regular checks on the train as they flew farther and farther north, each dip beneath the clouds showing them a different view. Denver was soon far behind them, replaced by neat green fields that gave way in turn to wide, purplish moors, a great city alive with cars like multicolored ants, villages with tiny toy churches.

Several uneventful hours later, however, Kenny had to admit that some of the fun was wearing off. The candy had made them extremely thirsty and they had nothing to drink. He and Stan had pulled off their sweaters, but Kenny’s T-shirt was sticking to the back of his seat and his sweat beads kept rolling down to the end of his nose. He had stopped noticing the fantastic cloud shapes now and was thinking longingly of the train miles below, where you could buy ice-cold pumpkin juice from a trolley pushed by a plump witch. _Why_ hadn’t they been able to get onto platform nine and three-quarters?

“We can’t be much further, right?” croaked Stan, hours later still, as the sun started to sink into their floor of cloud, staining it a deep pink. "I'm gonna check on the train, again.”

It was still right below them, winding its way past a snowcapped mountain. It was much darker beneath the canopy of clouds.

Stan put his foot on the accelerator and drove them upward again, but as he did so, the engine began to whine.

Kenny and Stan exchanged nervous glances.

“It’s probably just tired,” said Stan. “It’s never been this far before. . . .”

And they both pretended not to notice the whining growing louder and louder as the sky became steadily darker. Stars were blossoming in the blackness. Kenny pulled his sweater back on, trying to ignore the way the windshield wipers were now waving feebly, as though in protest.

“We're not far,” said Stan, more to the car than to Kenny, "almost there,” and he patted the dashboard nervously.

When they flew back beneath the clouds a little while later, they had to squint through the darkness for a landmark they knew.

“ _There_!” Kenny shouted, making Stan and Lemmiwinks jump. “Straight ahead!”

Silhouetted on the dark horizon, high on the cliff over the lake, stood the many turrets and towers of Hogwarts castle.

But the car had begun to shudder and was losing speed.

“Come on,” Stan said cajolingly, giving the steering wheel a little shake, “we're almost there, come _on_ —”

The engine groaned. Narrow jets of steam were issuing from under the hood. Kenny found himself gripping the edges of his seat very hard as they flew toward the lake.

The car gave a shaky wobble. Glancing out of his window, Kenny saw the smooth, black, glassy surface of the water, a mile below. Stan’s knuckles were white on the steering wheel. The car wobbled again.

“Come _on!_ ” Stan begged.

They were over the lake — the castle was right ahead — Stan put his foot down.

There was a loud clunk, a splutter, and the engine died completely.

“Fuck,” said Stan, into the silence.

The nose of the car dropped. They were falling, gathering speed, heading straight for the solid castle wall.

“ _AHHHHHH_!” Stan yelled, swinging the steering wheel around; they missed the dark stone wall by inches as the car turned in a great arc, soaring over the dark greenhouses, then the vegetable patch, and then out over the black lawns, losing altitude all the time.

Stan let go of the steering wheel completely and pulled his wand out of his back pocket —

“STOP! STOP!” he yelled, whacking the dashboard and the windshield, but they were still plummeting, the ground flying up toward them —

“WATCH OUT FOR THAT TREE!” Kenny bellowed, lunging for the steering wheel, but too late —

CRUNCH.

With an earsplitting bang of metal on wood, they hit the thick tree trunk and dropped to the ground with a heavy jolt. Steam was billowing from under the crumpled hood; Lemmiwinks was shrieking in terror; a golf-ball-sized lump was throbbing on Kenny’s head where he had hit the windshield and his nose was definitely broken again; and to his right, Stan let out a low, despairing groan.

“Are you okay?” Kenny said urgently.

“My wand,” said Stan, in a shaky voice. “Dude, look at my wand —”

It had snapped, almost in two; the tip was dangling limply, held on by a few splinters.

Kenny opened his mouth to say he was sure they’d be able to mend it up at the school, but he never even got started. At that very moment, something hit his side of the car with the force of a charging bull, sending him lurching sideways into Stan, just as an equally heavy blow hit the roof.

“What’s happen — ?”

Stan gasped, staring through the windshield, and Kenny looked around just in time to see a branch as thick as a python smash into it. The tree they had hit was attacking them. Its trunk was bent almost double, and its gnarled boughs were pummeling every inch of the car it could reach.

“Aaargh!” said Stan as another twisted limb punched a large dent into his door; the windshield was now trembling under a hail of blows from knuckle-like twigs and a branch as thick as a battering ram was pounding furiously on the roof, which seemed to be caving —

“Run!” Stan shouted, throwing his full weight against his door, but next second he had been knocked backward into Kenny’s lap by a vicious uppercut from another branch.

“We’re dead!” he moaned as the ceiling sagged, but suddenly the floor of the car was vibrating — the engine had restarted.

“ _Reverse_!” Kenny yelled, and the car shot backward; the tree was still trying to hit them; they could hear its roots creaking as it almost ripped itself up, lashing out at them as they sped out of reach.

“That,” panted Stan, “was a close one. Thank you, car —”

The car, however, had reached the end of its tether. With two sharp clunks, the doors flew open and Kenny felt his seat tip sideways: Next thing he knew he was sprawled on the damp ground. Loud thuds told him that the car was ejecting their luggage from the trunk; Lemmiwinks’s cage flew through the air and burst open; she rose out of it with an angry screech and sped off toward the castle without a backward look. Then, dented, scratched, and steaming, the car rumbled off into the darkness, its rear lights blazing angrily.

“Come back!” Stan yelled after it, brandishing his broken wand. “My dad’s gonna kill me!”

But the car disappeared from view with one last snort from its exhaust.

“Did that just really happen?” said Stan miserably, bending down to pick up his broken wand. “Out of _all_ the trees we could’ve hit, we had to find one that hits back.”

He glanced over his shoulder at the ancient tree, which was still flailing its branches threateningly.

“Come on,” said Kenny wearily, “let’s just get up the school. . . .”

It wasn’t at all the triumphant arrival they had pictured. Stiff, cold, and bruised, they seized the ends of their trunks and began dragging them up the grassy slope, toward the great oak front doors.

“I think the feast already started, dude,” said Stan, dropping his trunk at the foot of the front steps and crossing quietly to look through a brightly lit window.

“Hey — dude — come and look — it’s the Sorting!”

Kenny hurried over and, together, he and Stan peered in at the Great Hall.

Innumerable candles were hovering in midair over four long, crowded tables, making the golden plates and goblets sparkle. Overhead, the bewitched ceiling, which always mirrored the sky outside, sparkled with stars.

Through the forest of pointed black Hogwarts hats, Kenny saw a long line of scared-looking first years filing into the Hall. He then swept his eyes over the Ravenclaw table and saw that Kyle was among them, easily visible because of his vivid red hair. Meanwhile, Professor Victoria, a bespectacled witch with her hair in a golden bush, was placing the famous Hogwarts Sorting Hat on a stool before the newcomers.

Every year, this aged old hat, patched, frayed, and dirty, sorted new students into the four Hogwarts houses (Gryffindor, Hufflepuff, Ravenclaw, and Slytherin). Kenny well remembered putting it on, exactly one year ago, and waiting, petrified, for its decision as it muttered aloud in his ear. For a few horrible seconds he had feared that the hat was going to put him in Slytherin, the House that had turned out more Dark witches and wizards than any other — but he had ended up in Gryffindor with Shelly, Stan had been proclaimed a Hufflepuff, just like his parents, and Kyle was made a Ravenclaw to the surprise of no one even though they had just met him. Last year, Kenny, Kyle, and Stan had helped Gryffindor win the House Championship, beating Slytherin for the first time in seven years.

A very small, mousy-haired boy had been called forward to place the hat on his head. Kenny’s eyes wandered past him to where PC Principal, the headmaster, sat watching the Sorting from the staff table, his tight, dark blue, polo shirt and reflective Oakley’s shining brightly in the candlelight. Several seats along, Kenny saw Harrison Yates, dressed in robes of aquamarine. And there at the end was Chef, huge and hairy, drinking deeply from his goblet.

“Hang on . . .” Kenny muttered to Stan. “There’s an empty chair at the staff table. . . . Where’s Garrison?”

Professor Herbert Garrison was Kenny’s least favorite teacher. Kenny also happened to be Garrison’s least favorite student. Cruel, sarcastic, and disliked by everybody except the students from his own House (Slytherin), Garrison taught Potions.

“Maybe he’s dead!” said Stan hopefully.

“Maybe he _quit_ ,” said Kenny, “because he didn't get the Defense Against the Dark Arts job _again_!”

“Or he maybe he got  _fired_!” said Stan enthusiastically. “I mean, everyone hates that cum-sucker —”

“Or maybe,” said a very cold voice right behind them, “he’s waiting to hear why you two little assholes didn’t arrive on the train today.”

Kenny spun around. There, his black robes rippling in a cold breeze, stood Herbert Garrison. He was a thick man with sallow skin, a hooked nose, square glasses, and grey hair that was missing completely on top of his head, and at this moment, he was smiling in a way that told Kenny he and Stan were in very deep trouble.

“Follow me, ‘cum-suckers’,” said Garrison.

Not daring even to look at each other, Kenny and Stan followed Garrison up the steps into the vast, echoing entrance hall, which was lit with flaming torches. A delicious smell of food was wafting from the Great Hall, but Garrison led them away from the warmth and light, down a narrow stone staircase that led into the dungeons.

“In!” he said, opening a door halfway down the cold passageway and pointing.

They entered Garrison’s office, shivering. The shadowy walls were lined with shelves of large glass jars, in which floated all manner of revolting things Kenny didn’t really want to know the name of at the moment. The fireplace was dark and empty. Garrison closed the door and turned to look at them.

 “So,” he said softly, “the train isn’t good enough for the famous Kenny McCormick and his faithful ass hat, Stan Marsh. No, we just wanted to arrive with a _bang_ , didn’t we, boys?”

“No, it was the barrier, it —”

“Shut up!” said Garrison coldly. “What did you slack-jawed monkeys do with the car?”

Stan gulped. This wasn’t the first time Garrison had given Kenny the impression of being able to read minds. But a moment later, he understood, as Garrison unrolled today’s issue of the _Evening Prophet._

“You were seen,” he hissed, showing them the headline: _FLYING PRIUS MYSTIFIES_ _MUGGLES_. He began to read aloud: “Two Muggles in Denver, convinced they saw a car flying over the Post Office tower . . . at noon in Fairplay, Mrs. Betty Bayliss, while walking her dog . . . Mr. Allen Fleet, of Sioux Falls, reported to police . . . Six or seven Muggles in all. I believe your father works in the Misuse of Muggle Artifacts Office?” he said, looking up at Stan and smiling still more nastily. “Oh my . . . his own son . . .”

Kenny felt as though he’d just been walloped in the stomach by one of the angry tree’s larger branches. If anyone found out Mr. Marsh had bewitched the car . . . he hadn’t thought of that. . . .

“I noticed, in my search of this illicit vehicle, that considerable damage seems to have been done to a very valuable Whomping Willow,” Garrison went on.

“That tree did more damage to _us_ than we —” Stan blurted out.

“ _Can it,_ Marsh! Before I bend you over my knee in front of that tree!” snapped Garrison again. “Unfortunately for me, you two brats are not in my House and the decision to expel you does not rest with me. I’m gonna go and fetch the people who _do_ have that happy power. Wait here and try to resist the temptation to slobber on each other’s assholes.”

Kenny and Stan stared at each other, white-faced. Kenny didn’t feel hungry anymore. He now felt extremely sick. He tried not to look at a large, slimy something suspended in green liquid on a shelf behind Garrison’s desk. If Garrison had gone to fetch Professor Victoria, head of Gryffindor House, they were hardly any better off. She might be fairer than Garrison, but she was still extremely strict.

Ten minutes later, Garrison returned, and sure enough it was Professor Victoria and Professor Mephesto, the head of the Hufflepuff house, who accompanied him. Kenny had seen Professor Victoria angry on several occasions, but either he had forgotten just how thin her mouth could go, or he had never seen her this angry before. She raised her wand the moment she entered; Kenny and Stan both flinched, but she merely pointed it at the empty fireplace, where flames suddenly erupted.

“Sit,” she said, and they both backed into chairs by the fire.

“Explain,” she said, her glasses glinting ominously.

Stan launched into the story, starting with the barrier at the station refusing to let them through.

“— so we had no choice, Professor, we missed the train.”

“Why didn’t you boys send us a letter by owl?" Mephesto asked.

"I believe _you_ have an owl?” Professor Victoria said coldly to Kenny.

Kenny gaped at her. Now that she’d said it, that seemed like the obvious thing to do.

“I — we didn’t think —”

“That,” said Professor Victoria, “is obvious.”

There was a knock on the office door and Garrison, now looking happier than ever, opened it. There stood PC Principal.

Kenny’s whole body went numb. PC Principal was looking unusually grave. He stared down his very straight nose at them, and Kenny suddenly found himself wishing he and Stan were still being beaten up by the Whomping Willow.

There was a long silence. Then PC Principal said, “Boys, please explain to me why you did this.”

It would have been better if he had shouted. Kenny hated the disappointment in his voice. For some reason, he was unable to look PC Principal in the eyes, and spoke instead to his knees. He told PC Principal everything except that Mr. Marsh owned the bewitched car, making it sound as though he and Stan had happened to find a flying car parked outside the station. He knew PC Principal would see through this at once, but PC Principal asked no questions about the car. When Kenny had finished, he merely continued to peer at them through his spectacles.

“We’ll go and get our stuff,” said Stan in a hopeless sort of voice.

“What are you talking about, Marsh?” asked Mephesto.

“Well, you’re expelling us, aren’t you?” said Stan.

Kenny looked quickly at PC Principal.

“Not today, Mr. Marsh,” said PC Principal. “But I do express to you both, the seriousness of, of your actions. I will be writing to both your families tonight and I must also warn you, that if you do anything like this again, I will have no choice, but to expel you.”

Garrison looked as though Christmas had been canceled. He cleared his throat and said, “PC Principal, these boys have shit on the Decree for the Restriction of Underage Wizardry, they caused serious damage to an old and valuable tree — surely this should mean —”

“It will be up to Professor Victoria and Professor Mephesto to decide on these boys’ punishments, Herbert,” said PC Principal calmly. “They are in their Houses, and are therefore, their responsibilities.” He turned to Professor Victoria and Professor Mephesto. “I'm going back to the feast to give a few speeches. Herbert, there’s some really delicious-looking desserts I know you’ll love —”

Garrison shot a look of pure venom at Kenny and Stan as he allowed himself to be swept out of his office, leaving them alone with Professor Victoria, who was still eyeing them like a wrathful eagle, and Professor Mephesto, who's rage was much more subtle.

 “You’d better get along to the hospital wing, Marsh, you’re bleeding. And McCormick, that nose looks broken, you should go, too.” Professor Mephesto instructed.

“It's nothing,” said Stan, hastily wiping the cut over his eye with his sleeve.

“Yeah, it’s nothing, Professor,” Kenny tried to gingerly wipe away some of the blood caked on his face.

“Now on to the topic of points —” Professor Victoria said sharply, but Kenny cut in: “Professor, when we took the car, school hadn’t started, yet, so — so Gryffindor and Hufflepuff shouldn’t really have points taken from them — right?” he finished, watching the two professors anxiously.

Professor Victoria gave him a piercing look, but he was sure she had almost smiled. Her mouth looked less thin, anyway.

“I will not take any points from Gryffindor," she said.

"Or Hufflepuff,” Professor Mephesto added, and Kenny’s heart lightened considerably. “But you will both get a detention.”

It was better than Kenny had expected. As for PC Principal’s writing to the Cartmans, that was nothing. Kenny knew perfectly well they’d just be disappointed that the Whomping Willow hadn’t squashed him to death.

Professor Victoria raised her wand again and pointed it at Garrison’s desk. A large plate of sandwiches, two silver goblets, and a jug of iced pumpkin juice appeared with a pop.

“You will eat in here and then go straight up to your respective dormitories. No sleepovers and no late night gallivants for either of you, boys,” she said. “We must also return to the feast.”

When the door had closed behind them, Stan let out a long, low whistle.

“I thought that was it for us, dude,” he said, grabbing a sandwich.

“So did I,” said Kenny, taking one, too.

“Can you believe our shitty luck, though?” said Stan thickly through a mouthful of chicken and ham. “Shelly must’ve flown that car five or six times and no Muggles ever saw _her_.” He swallowed and took another huge bite. “ _Why_ couldn’t we get through the barrier?”

Kenny shrugged. “We’ll just have to watch our steps from now on, though,” he said, taking a grateful swig of pumpkin juice. “Wish we could’ve gone up to the feast. . . .”

“They didn’t want us showing off,” said Stan sagely. “They don’t want people to think it’s cool to get dropped at school in a flying car.”

When they had eaten as many sandwiches as they could (the plate kept refilling itself), they rose and left the office. Stan gave him a wave and headed in the opposite direction while Kenny treaded the familiar path to Gryffindor Tower. The castle was quiet; it seemed that the feast was over. He walked past muttering portraits and creaking suits of armor, and climbed narrow flights of stone stairs, until at last he reached the passage where the secret entrance to Gryffindor Tower was hidden, behind an oil painting of a very fat woman in a pink silk dress.

“Password?” she said as he approached.

“Uh—” said Kenny.

He didn’t know the new year’s password, not having seen a Gryffindor prefect yet, but help came almost immediately; he heard hurrying feet behind them and turned to see Kyle dashing toward him.

 “Dude! _There_ you are! Where the hell have you _been_? Where’s Stan? Why weren’t you on the train? There’s been _crazy_ rumors flying around — someone said you guys got expelled for crashing a flying _car_ —”

“Well, we weren’t expelled,” Kenny assured him.

“You guys really _did_ fly here?” said Kyle, sounding almost as severe as Professor Victoria.

“Skip the lecture,” said Kenny impatiently, “and tell me the new password. You’re basically in Gryffindor with how much time you spent in our common room last year, so I know somebody’s already told you.”

“It’s ‘wattlebird,’ ” said Kyle impatiently, “but that’s not the point —”

His words were cut short, however, as the portrait of the fat lady swung open and there was a sudden storm of clapping. It looked as though the whole of Gryffindor House was still awake, packed into the circular common room, standing on the lopsided tables and squashy armchairs, waiting for him to arrive. Arms reached through the portrait hole to pull Kenny inside, leaving Kyle to scramble in after him.

“Fuck yeah, dude!” yelled Larry Feegan. “Inspiring! What a way to kick off the school year! Flying a car right into the Whomping Willow, people’ll be talking about this for years —”

“Good for you, dude,” said a fifth year Kenny had never spoken to; someone was patting him on the back as though he’d just won a marathon; Shelly pushed her way to the front of the crowd and said almost angrily, “How come you turds didn’t tell me you were taking the car?” Kenny was scarlet in the face, grinning embarrassedly, but he could see one person who didn’t look happy at all. Kyle was visible over the heads of some excited first years, and he seemed to be trying to get close enough to him to start yelling at him. Kenny nudged Shelly in the ribs and nodded in Kyle’s direction. Shelly got the point at once.

“You should get to bed — you look like shit,” she said.

The two of them started pushing their way toward the door on the other side of the room, which led to a spiral staircase and the dormitories.

“ ’Night,” Kenny called back to Kyle, who was wearing a scowl.

They managed to get to the other side of the common room, Kenny still having his back slapped, and gained the peace of the staircase. They hurried up it, right to the top, and at last reached the door of his old dormitory, which now had a sign on it saying second years. Shelly gave him one more pat on the shoulder, looking like a proud older sister and they said their good nights. He entered the familiar, circular room, with its five four-posters hung with red velvet and its high, narrow windows. His trunk had been brought up for them and stood at the end of his bed. Lemmiwinks was already sitting on the window sill, owlish eyes looking sternly at him and Kenny grinned guiltily at her.

“I know I shouldn’t’ve enjoyed that, but —”

The dormitory door flew open and in came the other second year Gryffindor boys, Timmy Burch, Mark Cotswold, and D.P. Petuski.

“ _Timmy_!” beamed Timmy.

“Cool,” said Mark.

“Amazing,” said D.P., awestruck.

Kenny couldn’t help it. He grinned, too.

**Author's Note:**

> Hey guys, hope you enjoyed it! The rest of the book is already done so I'll be uploading again soon! XX


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